


The Forgotten Wolf (Under Re-write)

by The_MorRioghain



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Arya Stark, Dorne, Essos, Jon Snow Becomes a Lord, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow and Robb Stark are Best Friends, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Magic, Multi, Robb Stark Lives, Robb Stark is King in the North, Romance, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), War of the Five Kings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_MorRioghain/pseuds/The_MorRioghain
Summary: Jon Snow doesn’t join the Night’s Watch. Instead, he embarks upon a quest that will take him from the frozen lands Beyond the Wall to the Deserts of Dorne, to Braavos to Old Valyria and beyond.Along his journey, he will learn that not all legends are just stories and that there are powers in the world that, perhaps, were better left asleep and undisturbed.
Relationships: Dacey Mormont/Jon Snow, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Robb Stark/Jeyne Westerling
Comments: 68
Kudos: 175





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> *** Edited 10/26/2020 ***  
> After trying, and failing, to write what I thought would be the more widely liked version of this story I've decided that I'm just gonna write what I want. So go ahead and return to the beginning, because from this point onward, everything will change...

(Edited)

I’d like to begin by saying thank you for reading, and if you want to get right to the story please click on the next chapter.

Now for the rest of you people interested in the humming and mumbling of the author a few notes and disclaimers:

For all you wonderful fellow lovers of cannon and wikias; this is an AU so some things, some people, and events will be different form stated in cannon. Mostly this is obvious as you read, things are different due to a very different life and adventures of a certain bastard named Jon. However, in some instances, this is less clear. So here's a shortlist of some of the type of changes in this version of ASOIAF: 

  * Arya is born in 287 AC
  * Wildling Raids are far more frequent. because they have no way of bringing the wall down.
  * Jon Snow is more a Stark. He is much more 'blood of the first men' and was raised being taught the Old Ways by his father and Old Nan, as such he doesn't have the baked-in disbelief of Southerners when it comes to certain things 
  * WARNING, this story has significant magic in it. It's not the sort of magic that has fireballs being thrown around, nor are people getting sent back in time or anything like that. But the gods of VERY much real, and very much interested in the fate of the world...




	2. Battle Before the Weirwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow's attempt to give his oath to the Night's Watch is interrupted by an unfortunate... or perhaps very fortunate, Wildling attack-- tripping Jon headfirst into events he cannot even begin to imagine or understand.

(Edited)

It had never really occurred to Jon that he might die north of the Wall, alone, abandoned by his brothers-in-arms, with nothing but the biting wind and agonized cries of the dying as his companions.

Nevertheless, this it seemed was indeed to be his fate as he watched the rapidly fading forms of his “brothers” galloping hard for the wall. He felt some small satisfaction as wildling arrows brought several of the cowards down. Even so, Jon’s rage was no closer to being sated as he turned back the heart tree he had only moments ago been planning to kneel before and give his oath. 

All about the ancient weirwood lay the bodies of wildlings and brothers of the Watch who’d fallen in the initial ambush. Most were the veteran rangers who’d accompanied the recruits, the wilding archers having chosen the more difficult to kill men for death from afar. Though it seems poor Samwell had been too tempting a target— his bulk was peppered with a half dozen grey feathered shafts. 

The sight of the wayward Tarley heir, his friend, lying still on the hard frozen ground helped to banish the panicked thrumming in Jon’s veins as he turned his gaze to the grey forms that then began detaching themselves from the shadows of the Haunted Forest. Most dashed off after the fleeing Watchmen, some remained though. They stalked closer and closer until the clearing’s light falling across them was enough to reveal the wilding hunting party for what it was. 

Jon knew he had little chance of escape. He was unmounted, unarmored, and only had his knife and arming sword to defend himself with. 

Though his grim thoughts brightened slightly as he remembered the half dozen garrons on which he and the other recruits had rode in upon— they were hitched just outside of the clearing where he had insisted to dismount in deference to the Old Gods who ruled there. Could he make it to the gelding that had carried him there before the wildings reached him? 

The answer was of course ‘no’, besides even if he _could_ make it in time he had little doubt that they’d hesitate to bring him down with a well-placed arrow just as they had with the fleeing watchmen. 

Nay, escape was not within reach. Nor, Jon realized, was retreat as the blood began to thrum with every beat of his heart, and his breath quickened in his mouth. Already the wildlings were stripping the bodies of his would-be brothers, ripping the blades and cloaks from their still warm corpses. 

Yes, he’d not planned on dying in such a place, but it seemed the Gods had decided otherwise. And if so? Well then, so be it. He was not one to argue fate.

The arming sword Robb had pressed into his hands as they said their farewells was good castle forged steel, honed by his own hand to a lethal edge. It’s weight, already familiar, was reassuring in his hand as he drew it forth from the scabbard hanging at his hip. 

Jon issued no words and bellowed no warcry as he threw himself at the first wildling to reach him. After all, he had no family words, nothing to defend, no hope of victory. He only hoped the Battle Crow was watching— perhaps she would see him through to a death worthy of the honor he had been devoid of in life. But he did not pry, prayer was for men with a future, men with time to dream; all Jon knew then was the resistance of fur and roughspun wool as his sword bit deep, then tore free, spattering the snow with blood. 

The wildling he’d buried his blade in groaned as he fell to the ground, strength fleeing the dying man’s limbs at a pace that surprised Jon. Ser Rodrik had always warned him and Robb against the vicious and often vengeful death throes of a defeated foe. This surprise, a surprise Jon would later note as being more with the ease of taking a life than the lack of a counter-attack, was almost Jon’s undoing as a second wildling fell upon him with a bellow. 

Luck, or maybe something else, was with him though for hearing the man’s bellow and pounding of feet upon the hard-packed snow he turned and once more swung his sword, this time up in an arcing slash that broke cleanly through the flesh of the charging wildling’s face— sending the howling wilding stumbling back as blood poured into his eyes. 

This time Jon did not wait to react once more, instead, he pressed forward and lashed out again. This time his strike was true— splitting the already bleeding wilding’s belly open, allowing his guts to spill out across both their feet. 

Ground suddenly slick with the dying wildling’s awful Jon forced himself to backpedal as he parried a rapidly thrusting stone spear even as his feat searched desperately for some solid ground to root himself upon. How had Ser Rodric never thought to mention how messy the killing of a man was? How it could befoul not only your wits but also the very field and ground upon which you stood? 

“Fuck!” Jon yelped as he moved with too much haste and felt his foot slide out from beneath him, sending him falling sideways to the ground. 

It was with a quiet sort of desperation that Jon forced himself to turn as he fell so as to land on his left side, sword still desperately clutched in his right hand. Falling on his own sword was _not_ the way in which he hoped to die. The moment he landed, Jon lashed out with his sword as he did his best to regain his feet, scrambling back and away from the spear still lashing out— the snarling face of a scarred wilding seeming to float in the air behind it. 

He managed to knock aside the first thrust cleanly, but the second one only partly— causing the stone spear point to dig into his side and slide across one of his ribs.

Yelping at the unexpected burst of searing pain that laced across his torso, Jon lashed out once more with his sword as he grabbed the spear’s shaft, desperate to stop it from moving and causing him any more pain. 

With the pain in his right side already sapping the strength of his sword arm, his desperate repost was far from a mighty blow. Nevertheless, the hungry steel bit deep into his opponent's hand, causing the wilding to flitch back and release his grip on the spear with his own yelp of pain. 

Before he could think better of it or was leaped upon by another fresh and unwounded wilding, Jon jerked the spear free from his flesh. This time he could hold nothing back, howling as the jagged stone withdrew from his muscle and skin, sending a cascade of fresh blood across his grey doublet. He did not resist the temptation to hurl the wildling weapon away from himself, childish though the impulse may have been. 

The world seemed to shift before Jon as he stumbled up to his feet, not a good sign. Blinking rapidly in an attempt to make the world stand still, he did his best to glance about and gauge the situation. 

Jon’s breath stilled in his chest. 

His struggles with the spear-wielding wildling hand drove him deeper into the glade. Now as he turned about he found his back to the Weirwood, one of nine he now saw, and in front of him, arrayed in a half-circle were no less than a dozen wildlings. Off to the far left of the group was the spear wielder he’d wounded— the man was now snarling, a feral glint in his eye as he drew a bone dagger and began taking jerking steps toward Jon even as more blood ran freely from his half severed hand. 

Another wave of weariness washed over Jon, causing him to lean back into the ancient tree in order to just stay upright. He said a muttered prayer of apology to the Old Gods for using the symbol of their power as a mere crutch and set himself as the wounded wilding bellowed and charged. 

The wildling warcry was a scream of pain, of rage, and of fear. He attacked with a sort of manic desperation that spoke to his knowledge that, so far from a healer of any sort, the wound Jon had dealt him was fatal. 

Not trusting himself to be able to avoid the wilding’s charge with his vision begging to once more shift and bend, Jon braced himself in plaice and brought his sword up in the basic guard Ser Rodrik had drilled into him since he’d had his fifth name day. It was those drills that saved him, the instinctive memory of an arm that has repeated the same motions a hundred times every day for a thousand days. 

As the man barreled into him Jon turned his sword edge on towards his attacker and jerked his aching body to the side, narrowly avoiding the thrusting bone dagger as the wilding brought himself close enough for Jon to draw his blade across the man’s unguarded throat. 

It was an almost casual way to kill a man, taking no more force than slicing bread fresh from the oven. That was almost as unexpected as the spray of hot blood that instantly coated Jon from scalp to shoulders. It stank of death and stung his eyes, even as it filled his snarling mouth with the taste of copper. 

Disgusted, Jon shoved the wildling’s writhing form away. 

So thick was the blood coating him that Jon was forced to wipe his eyes clear of it. Blinking and squirting as what remained of his foe’s blood stung at his eyes, Jon scanned the still very much there, and very much deadly looking wildings arrayed before him. He wouldn’t lie, Jon was proud of what he's accomplished. He, a boy of five and ten, had taken three grown and experienced men down with him. Perhaps not a feat worthy of song, but nor was it the sort of ignominious death that haunted the hearts and nightmares of warriors. 

“Aye you cunts,” Jon groaned out— why was his voice so hoarse? Never mind, it didn’t matter. 

“Finish it!” He barked, putting what strength he thought was left within him into the shout. But they didn’t. 

An altogether unnatural silence filled the grove as the echoes of Jon’s painfully desperate shout faded into the snowy lands beyond the Wall. He gazed out from behind blood tinted eyes in blank confusion as the Wildlings almost as one took a stuttering step back— the silence was so profound he could even hear their breaths turn ragged. 

Then he heard it, a rustling like that of leaves in the wind. Only the day was still and the sky clearer than Jon had ever seen it before.

It was then he noticed the Wildlings’ eyes darting away from him, and up to the weirwood at his back, before flicking back down to him filled with something that shocked Jon to his core; fear. 

A moment later they were gone, the Wildlings’ grey furs once more disappearing into the shadows of the Haunted Forest leaving no sign they existed save the bodies on the ground and pains still lancing through Jon’s body. Not that he spared much thought for his injuries as he stepped shakily away from the weirwood and, ignoring the small voice deep within his soul that screeched out for him to simply flee not look back, turned slowly around.

All the breath seemed to leave Jon’s chest at once, even as his body frozen stiff. Something deeper than cold, deeper than fear or abject terror, held him immobile as his eyes tracked slowly up the trunk of the weirwood. 

First, he saw the face carved long ago into the ancient weirwood, it’s mouth cracked open in a wicked grin, covered in the blood of the now-dead wildling. But Jon hardly noticed this, didn’t pause to remember how when he’d arrived in the glade the were weeping in sorrow, no his attention was consumed entirely by what he found in the branches of the ancient tree; hundreds, no thousands of inky black eyes staring back at him as unblinking as they were unnatural. 

A scream of terror, of horror, welled up in Jon’s throat as he comprehended that he was looking upon something that did not belong in the natural world, something that defied reason, that defied the natural order. And yet…

And yet despite the dawning horror that chilled something deeper than flesh within him, he felt no impulse to flee, no more desire to run. For deep down, buried beneath five and ten years of life and lessons of reason Jon simply _knew_ what it was upon which he looked. 

Even as the realization dawned upon him Jon’s vision seemed to clear, the force grasping at his core loosened, and the shapeless black _thing_ in which the unblinking eyes resided resolved into the bodies of uncountable crows. He felt the world settle beneath him as he fell to his knees, eyes widening as a single caw broke the silence. 

All at once, the crows seemed to rise up, lifting from the weirwood branches on which they perched and dove towards him in a swirling vortex of flashing beak and talon.

Jon had no strength to flinch away, no drive to flee in pursuit of his own survival. And all at once all the world was dark, consumed by absolute, blissful blackness. 


	3. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon awakens to a new world and discovers the cost of survival and a change of fate.

(edited)

Sensation and reality returned to Jon with a jolt. From blissful nothing, he was delivered back into a body wracked with cold and pain, consumed by hunger and thirst. 

Wind, sharp and unforgiving, was cutting across his unguarded face and hands. Snow colder even than that was sucking the heat from his back and legs, though strangely not his head. His eyes fluttered open, curious suddenly as to what his head was resting upon that protected it from the cold. 

‘Who’, not ‘what’, he realized as instead of the grey sky of the True North above him, Jon’s vision focused on a pale face floating above him. It was that of a woman, though unlike any woman he had ever seen. Framed by satin hair the color of the blackest night her features were neither comely nor ugly, neither young nor old. In fact, the only feature of this woman that Jon could even begin to describe were her eyes— for they were not eyes at all, but rather empty sockets filled with such complete blackness that he could describe it only as absolute nothingness. 

It was only then, upon seeing the recognition dawning across Jon’s face, that the woman addressed him in a voice of utter horror and absolute dread, “Awake at last.” 

When he tried to move a hand, unyielding and impossible to combat, pressed him back into the ground.

“Rest for now,” the woman snapped, her sharp words broaching no argument, “Rest and your strength shall return.” 

“W-who?” Jon tried to ask, but the word stuck in his throat, unable to pass by an oddly painful coarseness that he usually associated with a night spent out in the cold, telling Arya the old tales until she was able to fall asleep.

A smirk pulled at the woman’s mouth, a mouth Jon was then able to note was thin and drawn with lips painted black. Then a waterskin appeared above him, held in a single hand with skin as pale as new-fallen snow. 

The woman offered it to him, pressing its mouth against his lips prompting him to drink, “Here drink, it will help.” 

Dutifully he obeyed, seeing no reason to deny her, for if she wished him any sort of harm all that was needed was for her to leave him in the snow to bleed out or freeze, whichever came first. The waterskin proved to be filled with wine of a sort Jon had never before tasted. It was thick on his tongue, sweet and rich. And as he greedily gulped it down he could feel the warmth returning first to his chest, then his stomach— soon and with each swallow, it spread out to his limbs and finally his fingers and toes.

With the warms so too seemed to return Jon’s sense of control over himself. Though he had not realized it before his body had been frozen, trapped in place. Now he was free to move. 

Sensing this somehow, the woman withdrew the wineskin and placed a hand behind his shoulders before slowly guiding him up to a sitting position. As he bent forward Jon was forced to bite back a groan at the stiff prickling that rippled up his side, glancing down he was surprised to find his wounds bound with white cloth.

“Be gentle with yourself— you were close to death when I found you.” The woman warned. Somehow words of concern did not well fit or voice or face. 

“You have my thanks, My Lady,” Jon immediately replied.

“Oh, I shall have more than that Jon.” 

Her reply startled him, how did she know his name? And just what did she mean by ‘more’ than his thanks? He had nothing to give save a bloodstained sword and the clothes on his back.

“What do you…” Jon paused, eyes flicked over to once more take in the form of the woman kneeling beside him. 

She was garbed in a simple gown of black-dyed wool. He could not help but notice that beneath it she wore no shoes or foot wrappings, and it left her shoulders and arms bare to the cold— not that she seemed affected by the weather, or to even notice it. 

“Who are you?” 

“You have not yet guessed?” She asked, amusement replacing the concern form moments before. 

“Guess no… I…” He trailed off confusion clouding his thoughts until it stalled his already reluctant lips. 

“Very well,” A smile, true and full, graced those dark lips before she spoke, “Then listen Jon son of Eddard. I am Folda, Queen of All that you see before you.” As she spoke Folda swept her arm in a wide ark, indicating the glade of Weirwoods, the Haunted Forest, and all else. 

Jon scowled, it was not that he did not believe her words. Somehow he simply  _ knew  _ that this being, for a part of his mind simply did not accept that she was as  _ human  _ as she seemed, was not really Queen of the True North… and yet he had little doubt that she was indeed a queen, though perhaps not a queen of the sort that had ever walked Westeros before. 

“Then Folda Queen of all that I see— if not my thanks then what would you have of me?” He asked, his father’s lessons in the Old Ways of the North and Old Nan’s tales of the cost of impoliteness echoing through his memory. 

“I would have you son of Winter.” She replied, her smile now turning mocking even as Jon felt his cheeks coloring at the implication of her words. 

“Me?” 

“Aye. It has been too long since my name has echoed across the field of battle. I have spared your death this day, delivered you from a fate worse than the honorable death you embraced this day, so as you would have in death you will now serve me in life.” As she spoke Folda rose, stepping back from Jon and as she did so he watched in horrified fascination. The Haunted Forest seemed to come alive all about her as it’s shadows leaped forward, garbing this Queen in a cloak of writhing darkness. 

“You shall be my champion. You shall spread my domain far and wide across this land. But know this Jon Snow, you have given me three lives this day and in return, I grant you three boons. When the time is right and you are in great need ask and they shall be granted.”    
  


It was as the shadows began to consume the form of Folda that a name came to Jon, a name he’d known since he was old enough to understand the lessons of the Old Ways he learned beside Robb, kneeling before the heartree in Winterfell’s godswood. For Folda was the name of another, one who had walked the lands long before the First Men arrived in Westeros, and who hand her hand in all that happened since. 

The Morrigan, the Phantom Queen of Fate and Prophecy and War. She was the Battle Crow, Chooser of the Slain. She was the Mother of Terror and Bringer of Doom. In the days before the Andals came and the Old Powers hid from the world, she was all that left men lying awake at night, hearts pounding in terror. 

“Yes son of the Fallen Star I am all of those things and more,” Her voice came this time not from her lips but from all about Jon, “Now go and rejoice for you shall bear witness to the beginning of a new age. Soon what I have done this day shall awaken Those Who Sleep— there is once more power in words and deeds. I have given you my blessing and my favor mortal. Do not fail me.” 

And like that, she was gone. 

The natural sounds of the forest seemed almost supernaturally loud to Jon after there had been no sound but  _ her  _ voice. 

Had he imagined it? Jon knew it wasn’t impossible, wounded men were said to hear and see all manner of strange things… but the pain in his side steadily fading away bore silent testimony to the reality of what he had just seen. And besides, ever since he’d laid eyes on her Jon knew she’d been there and telling the truth— his imagination wasn’t that creative. 


	4. >| Bronze and Bone |<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon learns that Wildlings rarely travel alone, and that he is more his father' son than anyone could have predicted.

Many hours had passed while Jon slept, the rest of the day and an entire night in fact and he’d only been dragged back to consciousness by Ghost taking hold of his shirtsleeve and tugging him out of the bed of furs before the fire. 

As there was only a small bed of coals remaining from what had been a roaring fire when he fell asleep Jon made that his first priority. Building it back up to a happy crackle from the piles of bone dry firewood and kindling that filled the corners of the room— firewood so dry that it burned with almost no smoke at all.

With the fire stoked and a belly once more filled with mead and fish, Jon headed back out to deal with his dead foe. Big as the man was, Jon found it surprisingly easy to drag him down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Perhaps it had something to do with being so well rested, or having a full stomach, it didn’t really matter though once he’d pulled the man out to the bridge and pitched him over the edge. Jon didn’t know how far the drop was, and he didn’t wait to hear the corps land. Instead he turned and trudged off to find an out of the way place to relieve himself. 

With that out of the way Jon returned to the courtyard and made his way to the water trough that somehow still stood outside of what used to be the stable. That garron that had carried him so far was still there, covered in the thick furs that took the place of the blanket usually worn as tack south of the wall the beast still looked half frozen. That said it was a clear day and even as early as it was, the sun was already caressing the world with warm fingers of golden light. Jon hoped it would only get warmer and give both the tough little garron and himself some relief from the damn cold. 

After retrieving the axe used to almost split his skull open Jon used the back of the blade to break the finger width of ice that had sealed the tough closed overnight. After scooping out the chunks of ice and stripping off his clothes Jon took a deep breath, then dunked his head into the icy water. Forcing himself to stay like that he vigorously scrubbed away at his hair and scalp, washing away sweat, dirt, and no small amount of blood. 

It was a spluttering and far colder and Jon who burst out of the tough, blinking at the brightness of the sun and cursing a storm. Before he could think better of it Jon scrubbed the rest of himself down. Cold as it made him, feeling clean felt good, making him feel more human. 

Not wanting to catch his death he didn’t dawdle once clean and after scooping up his clothes and axe he made quick time back into the keep, and more importantly to the roaring fire which he took up position beside and refused to move till he could feel its warmth begin to pool in his limbs. 

Once dry and warm again he redressed and sat down to think on his situation with a clear head for the first time. There was no denying the fact that he was excessively lucky, but luck could only take him so far and a man who relied on luck alone would soon find that death could run faster than him. So it was time to  _ think. _

As they’d been attacked before he had a chance to swear himself to the brotherhood Jon felt no loyalty to men who’d abandoned him at the first sign of a fight. Again though, he was lucky. The rangers who’d been escorting them were not only skilled, but they weren’t friendly with Ser Alliser Thorne and could be trusted to tell truly that he was no deserter. With that and the fact the Lord Commander Mormont was a just man Jon had no fear of losing his head— at least not for the crime of desertion. 

With him he had Ghost, the garron, enough food and drink to last him perhaps a week, plus who knew what else in the storeroom so he’d not starve in the immediate future. That bothered him somehow. Why would a single wildling be living in a castle on the Wall? And not only why but how would he be so well provisioned? The obvious answer was that he was a raider; that along with the fact that the bed and other amenities were clearly meant for more than a single man told Jon that he was in fact not just one Wilding, it told him there must be more and that the castle was simply where they kept the spoils of their raids— probably waiting to store up enough to bring a significant haul back to their kin. 

So why had he only found the one man? Again the simple answer was that he’d been a guard while the rest were away. And since Jon hadn’t woken to a slit throat he had to assume the others had yet to return. So what to do? 

He really didn’t like the idea of still being at Westwatch when the others returned, at the same time he didn’t fancy coming across them while out in the open either as he’d be just the sort they were looking to rob and kill. On top of that; Jon didn’t like the idea of wildlings raiding the villages of the North, of them killing the people who lived there. In fact the very idea made his blood burn hot. 

But could he do anything about them? 

With that question on his mind Jon began a more thorough search of the sleeping chamber and store room. What he found both angered and disturbed him, as well as spurred him to further action. 

In the light of day it was hard to miss the bones piled high in the corner of the storeroom, human bones that by the looks of them had been  _ cooked. _ Raiding and killing were one thing, but  _ eating  _ the people of The North? The people he’d been raised to consider under  _ his  _ protection? The people his father’s father had ruled as far back as living memory? No, it was not in him to let that stand. No matter who he became Jon knew Stark blood would always run through his veins— and that Wolf’s-blood was thick with a roaring thirst for the lives of these men, of these monsters. 

In addition to the bones Jon found a bundle of spears, a bow, and a second axe. The bow was no yew longbow, rather more a hunting bow of the sort used by woodsmen of the Wolfswood. Still, he had no doubt it would kill a man so long as he didn’t wear steel or iron plate. Of the spears most were long with flit tips but two were short with bronze wrapped shafts and bronze leaf shaped blades as long as a man’s forearm. Like the first the axe had a long leather-bound shaft and a great bronze head with a curved edge so sharp a man might shave with it if he wished. 

From the storeroom Jon took a large round basket and filled it with kindling and as much of the wet rotting wood from the first floor as he could. This he placed by the second floor entrance of the stairway along with a burning torch. He also poured water across the cold stones of the stairwell, grinning as he saw it freeze in only a moment. 

Lastly he ensued that the second floor windows allowed him a good view of the courtyard and both the George and Wall entrances into the keep. Lastly he tethered the garron in an out of sight corner, made sure Ghost was by his side, and that the sleeping room was stocked with food, water, and a way to barricade the door. Then, he waited. 

A not so small part of his mind was screaming at Jon that this was completely crazy, that he’d lost his mind somewhere out there in the snows beyond the wall. He was just one lad barley of an age old enough to go to war preparing to defend a Keep against an wildling raiding party of unknown numbers with nothing but a dirk and some barbarian weapons. Jon wagered that was his mother’s blood talking, whoever she was she must have been a Southerner. He ignored it. 

He’d been ready and willing to join the Watch hadn’t he? He’d  _ wanted  _ to be a bloody ranger, he’d wanted to be doing just what he was planning— to kill Wildlings. Oh how the gods must be laughing. But this  _ was  _ their will, Jon could feel it in his bones… 

That day passed slowly. The silence and emptiness of the castle soon surrounded and pressed in on Jon like some strange miasma seeking to steal the breath from his lungs. 

Jon didn’t sleep that night. The fear of waking up with an axe in his head kept him awake, if not very alert, all through the moon’s traversing of the sky. Only when the stars gave way to the grey wash of pre-dawn did he finally submit to the exhaustion grasping at his soul. He jerked away seemingly a moment later, Ghost once more pulling him from sleep by pulling him across the floor. 

Just as he opened his mouth to ask his companion why he’d woken him Jon heard it, voices in the yard below. 

Moving to one of the windows overlooking the courtyard Jon felt his eyes widen as he took in the party of Wildlings filing in through the gate leading south of the Wall. Like the one he’d already killed their faces were painted in complex patterns. They wore a mixture of leather and bronze armor and carried bows, axes and spears of the short long bladed variety. And there were a dozen of them. That was a good few more than he’d expected— even so he could hear the Wolf’s-blood howling for a fight, a howling that turned to icy rage when he saw the small figure being carried between two of the wildlings strung up to a pole by her hands and feet. 

Ducking down before he could be seen Jon quickly slung the quiver of arrows across his back, said a silent prayer to the gods, and took up his bow. 

He drew three arrows from the quiver, placing two against the wall beneath the window and knocking the third. Granted Jon wasn’t the best archer in the world, or even the best he knew. As much as he hated to admit it Theon earned that title, but nor was he the worst. And at the short range of twenty paces he knew the arrow would fly true.

Of the dozen wildlings moving towards the keep only one wore a full shirt of bronze scale armor. It was this one Jon focused on as he drew the bow’s string back to its fullest length, then allowed it to slip from his fingers. 

The bow made a muffled ‘thwack’ sound that barely registered next to the sound of the arrow sinking into flesh and the howl of the armored wildling as he went down. 

As he snatched up a second arrow and drew it back Jon wondered at how his heart did not race, how he felt no panic; only a calm sort of invigoration— it was how he thought Ghost must feel when his jaws clamped down on the throat of a deer. 

His second arrow caught another wildling just as they were turning to look, dumbfounded, at their fallen friend. By the time he’d knocked and draw the third arrow the wildlings were moving— three to their fallen comrades, five to the entrance to the keep, and the two carrying the bound girl towards the remains of the stable, clearly hoping to find cover there. Jon’s third arrow sank into the left most of the pair, sending the second one and the prisoner sprawling in the light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. 

Jon never saw his third victim fall though. As soon as he loosed that arrow he was drawing another and pausing only to grab a burning torch from the fire, and ran to the stairwell. Once there he threw the torch into the basket of kindling and wet wood— setting the dry twigs ablaze instantly. 

He could hear the wildlings screaming and roaring in anger as they crossed the first floor. He heard the clatter as they all reached the stairwell at once, and grinned at the cursing that ensued as they all tried to force their way up as one. Finally after what felt like an eternity he could hear footsteps moving up. Drawing back the bow he waited. 

As soon as a body came into view Jon loosed his arrow and kicked the now smoaking basket down after it. Cries of pain from the shot man and surprise from the rest followed as the burning basket filled with wet wood began to belch thick smoke out into the stairwell. By the time the coughing began and cursing resumed Jon had drawn and knocked another arrow. 

This time it took him longer to see them moving up the stairs, but he still had enough time to let loose the arrow. He grinned even as the cries of pain redoubled. Taking a mental count— four wounded, eight alive— he cast the bow aside and took up one of the long spears. 

The next man to come up the stairs was, unlike the rest, small and quick. He wove from side to side as best as the stairs allowed, clearly trying to dodge the arrow he thought was aiming at him for long enough to get close enough to use the pair of knives he held on Jon. It was not to be as Jon thrust his spear forward, the quelch of flint and wood piercing flesh went unheard as the cries of yet another man filled the stairwell. 

As the small man fell back though, he was clutching at the spear embedded in his stomach and rather than allowing himself to be dragged along with it Jon let it go, letting the man tumble his way back to safety. As Jon reached for another spear the form of a coughing and spluttering wildling came pelting pelmell up towards him. 

Jon’s free hand went to one of the bronze daggers in his belt and brought the blade up in time to bury it to the hilt in the wildling’s shoulder. With a bellow of rage the wildling raised his axe with his undamaged left arm. Bellowing in return Jon lashed out, punching the man square in the nose he felt the cartilage give with a wet pop. The blow stunned the man, causing him to stumble back a step into his fellows who were pressing up close behind him now. 

Take the heartbeat of space and time this gave him Jon snatched up two more spears. This time in his right hand he held one of the long flint tipped ones— more a lance than spear, and in his left held one of the short bronze ones. 

The leading Wildling managed to turn in time to miss the thrust from Jon’s right hand, and in doing so doomed the man behind him. Lower on the stairs as he was, the spear caught this man in the neck and sent him reeling back in horror clutching at his neck, weapons forgotten, as he gurgled a scream. 

Blood now making the stairs slick, the remaining attackers were forced to slow their advance even more. And force back onto the stairs as he’d been the wildling with a wounded shoulder was unable to swing his axe— seeing this Jon simply stepped forward and drove the short bronze spear into his face, sinking it deep into his right eye before jerking it back. 

Just as Jon stepped back he felt a sharp pressure in his side and looked down to see the tip of a long flint spear stuck into his leather jerkin. The snarl that then passed his lips sounded more like a sound a wolf would make than that of a man. 

Dropping the flint spear in his right hand, Jon reached down and took hold of the shaft that had pierced him. He could feel it skating across his ribs and knew if he allowed the wielder freedom to do so he’d re position the tip and drive it clean through him. So with another snarl Jon pulled the shaft forward and to the side, ripping it free from his flesh and shoving it’s wielder back. 

Roaring his anger Jon was halfway through taking a step to follow when a blur of white passed him and slammed into the wildling who’d wounded him. There was a flash of teeth and fountain of blood, then the wildling was dead— his throat ripped out— and Ghost was pressing Jon back up the stairs, snout caked in blood. 

Unable to resist the huge creature Jon obeyed and retreated. Once back on the second floor he snatched back up the bow and died yet another arrow. Only no one came up the stairs. Scowling in confusion Jon carefully retreated to the sleeping chamber and shut the door— throwing the brace across it— before turning to look out the window. 

None of the assaulters had returned to the courtyard. The three he’d hit with arrows were down but still moving, the other four uninjured were tending to their wounds, and much to Jon’s furthered rage two of them were carrying their captive towards the bridge. 

Drawing back the bowstring Jon let fly, putting an arrow once again into one of the prisoner carriers. This time the second carrier simply dropped the girl and sprinted for the bridge. He made it perhaps fifteen paces before Jon’s next arrow found home in his thigh. The wildling went down howling. 

By then the two remained wildlings who’d been tending to those he’d injured had taken cover in the wreckage of the stable. Jon could feel the pain from his side but felt none of the lightheadedness that came along with rapid blood loss— he had time. 

Turning about he unbarred the door before stepping back and throwing it open… only to find nothing but the screams of the dying on the other side. Once more taking up a short spear in his left hand and a long one in his right and after slinging the bow across his back he moved towards the stairwell. 

Closest to the top was the man he’d stabbed in the eye, dead. Next was the man who’d taken a spear in the throat, dead. Ghost’s kill was the last on the stairwell. As he crept down and onto the first floor Jon found the two he’d put arrows in. One was sitting with his back to the wall, hands clamped down around the arrow protruding from his stomach, the other was trying to pick up his short spear upon seeing Jon but could not due to that arrow driving home through his shoulder. 

Ever wary of wounded beasts Jon used the long spear, driving it through the grasping man’s chest before ripping it free. Once the man fell back gasping for breath he placed the spear tip against the underside of his jaw and thrust up through his mouth and into his brain.

Tugging the weapon free he turned to the other man who was looking up at him, eyes filled with fear. Somehow Jon found himself smiling down at the wildling as he drove the bronze spear into his throat, it wasn’t quick death, nor was it as slow as Jon thought he deserved. 

With that Jon turned towards the courtyard and followed Ghost out into the light of day. He took a long breath, happy to not have to breath the thick smoke any longer, and cast about for the remaining Wildlings. He could see them, still cowering in the remains of the stable and beyond them just before the gate leading to the bridge was their prisoner who was struggling mightily against her bindings. 

“Ghost, protect her.” Jon barked. 

Silent as his name suggested the Direwolf darted across the yard and took up his position standing over the girl. 

That in hand for the moment Jon turned his full attention back to the remaining Wildlings along with the still living injured. Seeing they’re attention was still on the window he’d fired from Jon dropped to one knee, and unslung the bow from his back— setting the bronze spear down within quick reach then drew and knocked another arrow. He only had four left in the quiver. 

Scanning the yard Jon fired, sending the arrow into one of the wounded who’d begun to rise to his feet. This time the wildling didn't move when he fell. 

“Come on you dogs!” Jon didn’t know much of the Old Tongue, but Maester Luwin had ensured he could at least compliment and insult anyone he met no matter where they hailed from. 

The insult seemed to be the last straw for the wildlings as both lept to their feet bellowing and charged him. Jon had time to loose one final arrow— which struck the lead man in the left shoulder— before he had to drop the bow and snatch up the bronze spear. By then the leading wildling was on him and he dove and rolled away to avoid his axe. 

As he came to his feat Jon spun to avoid the thrust of the second wilding’s spear, but was shocked when the man dropped the weapon and leaped into him as he grabbed for a bone dagger. Jon’s spear sank into the wildling’s chest, even as the knife sank into Jon’s shoulder. 

Feeling the strength leave his left arm Jon was forced to abandon his spear. He drew the dirk from his belt with his remaining good hand even as he backpedaled away from the final wildline who was now grinning at him, hefting his axe one handed in a way that clearly showed he thought Jon was already a dead-man. Following the lead of the man who’d caused him the worst wound of his life Jon bellowed, letting all the rage he felt and the reeving monstars out in a single cry— then he charged. 

The two handed axe was unwieldy in what Jon thought would have otherwise been the wildling’s expert hands. Jon ducked the first swing, causing his opponent to in turn back away rapidly in an attempt to make more space to swing, but Jon kept coming. Once again he sank the dirk into flesh, this time thrusting into the man’s inner thigh before twisting and ripping the blade out. 

Jon saw the wildling’s eyes go wide before he fell, blood pouring in a river down his thigh and onto the cold cobblestones of the courtyard. 

_ “Never forget the legs lad.”  _ Ser Rodrik had taught him,  _ “Most men forget blood flows there too, split a man’s thigh open and his blood will fall from beneath him in a heartbeat.”  _

And so it was. 

Jon could feel his wounds now, though once more he seemed to carry the favor of Lady Luck. Deadly as any sharp thing the bone knife was strong enough to pierce skin but had struggled against the thick padding of his gambeson so that when he pulled it out he saw it had only just managed to sink into his flesh. A wound to be sure but like the one in his side not enough to threaten his life from blood loss or internal damage. 

He took a moment to wipe the dirk clean, then turned toward the girl whose hands were still bound behind her back but had otherwise freed herself and was sitting up— looking rather perturbed with Ghost who refused to move off of her. 

Grinning at the stubborn beast Jon barked; “Ghost to me.” 

Instantly the direwolf was by his side, sniffing at the wound on his torso and whining just loud enough for Jon to hear. 

“I know boy. I’ll be okay though. No need to fear.” The look ghost favored him and told Jon in no uncertain terms that the direwolf was unimpressed by his words, and his showing.

“There were a dozen of them! I know I have room to grow but truly?” he protested, then headed for the girl. 

As he drew nearer to her Jon saw that she was no lowborn girl. Her fine bearskin cloak with it’s silver buckle, and riding boots were of such quality that she had to be from a noble family. That and the bear sigal embroidered across the surcoat— and the fact that she wore a surcoat— told Jon the rest. 

“Apologies for the wait my lady.” He said, motioned with the dirk in his hand noticing how her eyes filled with apprehension and no small amount of fear followed the blade. 

Then he asked “My I or would you rather?” 

The eyes, grey eyes a few shades lighter than his own, flicked down then up to meet his.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice as suspicious as it was afraid. 

That tone, paired with the fearful defiance in grey eyes forcibly reminded jon of Arya, causing him to smile in spite of the pain he felt and the way his blood still pounded in his ears. He felt his own eyes softening.

“I’m not sure my lady. But till now I’ve been known as Jon Snow.” 

She tilted her head as if in confusion, eyes locked onto his face as if in search of something. Her expression cleared a moment later, replaced by recognition; “Oh indeed. Lord Stark’s natural son?” 

“The very same.” He confirmed. 

“Indeed. Go ahead then.” The girl allowed, jerking her head back towards her bound hands “But you owe me a story. I really must know how Ned Stark’s baseborn son ended up ambushing Wildling raiders at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge all by his fierce lonesome.” 

“I am never alone.” Jon replied as he stepped behind her and quickly sliced away the leather thongs binding her wrists, “The gods are always with me.” 

“Indeed?” her face as she turned around was incredulous. 

“Well them… and Ghost.” Jon amended, unable to keep the smirk from his lips...


	5. >| The Cub |<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon trades names with a bear cub, tends to his wounds, and begins his journey in earnest.

Once the girl was free she was on her feet in an instant and taking several steps away from Jon. Her eyes skipped from him, to Ghost, to the dead wildlings; there was fear in those eyes, and exhaustion but also a sharpness that spoke to more steel than a recently kidnaped noble girl would usually have. 

Keeping Arya’s fondness for sharp things in mind Jon moved slowly, sheathing his dirk then offering it to her hilt first. 

“Take it.” 

Moving slowly, as the hunter steps towards the deer, the girl shuffles within reach before taking the proffered weapon. She didn’t snatch it, that Jon decided was a good sign, instead she wrapped her fingers around the word wood of the grip and waited for him to let go. Once he did she seemed to relax somewhat, her body language shifting from ready to fight or flee, to simply paranoid. 

“May I ask your name my lady?” Jon asked as he turned and moved back to the fallen wildling and proceeded to jerk his spear free from the corps’ chest. 

“Lyanna Mormont.” She said after a moment’s hesitation, or perhaps just thought. 

“It is an honor to meet you Lady Mormont. Would you care to join me in the keep? I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess at the moment but there is food and a warm hearth.” 

“Is it yours to offer Snow?” She asked, the amusement in her voice clear. Though if it was directed towards Jon in good or ill humor he didn’t know.

He managed another grin, or perhaps it was more of a grimace judging by the way she flinched, but at least he managed the lighthearted tone he’d intended. “Not entirely. But I’m quite certain the Watch wouldn’t begrudge a battered bastard and noble Lady their hospitality.” 

“Perhaps you are correct. Lead on then, I shall follow.” 

What she didn’t  _ say  _ but Jon understood quite clearly was that Lyanna would be more than willing to put his dirk into his back at the first sign of unwanted or untrustworthy behavior. He expected nothing less from a daughter of Bear Island. 

It was a bit tricky getting up the staircase both because of his injuries that hurt more with every passing moment, and because of the blood and smoke still including them. Though by then most of the blood had drained to the bottom and the smoke had disbursed a bit. Even so as they walked by Lyanna took the initiative and stomped out what remained unburned of his fire basket. 

After she was done she complimented him, or at least acknowledged his effort: “Clever.” 

“Much appreciate my lady. Cleverness is one of the benefits of Stark blood.” He replied, his tone lacking anything close to humor. 

After returning to the living chamber Jon happily collapsed into one of the three chairs sitting before the hearth with a groan and sigh. In an instant Ghost’s head was in his lap, tail wagging, and tongue lolling. 

He could see Lyanna watching on in amazement as Jon rubbed the massive ears with his good arm before pushing the direwolf away. 

“Enough you great lump yes you did a good job but I need to look at these.” He quipped, then began pulling at the ties holding on his gambeson. 

“You may want to wait outside my lady. This won’t be pretty.” As he spoke Jon leaned forward and slid his remaining bronze dagger into the fire. 

“Hmm.” Was all the response he got before the young ‘lady’ stepped up beside him and helped undo the ties before lifting the gambeson, along with his woolen undershirt off of him. 

Before he had a chance to recover from the jolt of pain caused by moving— by then the battlejoy had faded and he could truly feel how much the injuries hurt— he felt small hands probing at the undamaged areas around his side and shoulder. 

“These aren't too bad.” Lyanna said, a hint of concern and slight waver in voice the only sign that she was affected at all by what she’d seen that day. 

“It would be better if we had spirits to clean them— especially your shoulder— and a needle and thread to close them… I suppose water and bandages will have to do until we get to a maester though.” 

Wincing at the very idea of leaving the wounds to fester Jon shook his head and reached down to his boot, drawing out the razor sharp skinning knife he kept there. 

“I fear they’d fester by then.” He replied, “We’ll have to cauterize them.”

When she saw the blade in his hand Lyanna moved back quickly, hand flying to the dirk she’d tucked into her belt. 

“Not for you.” Jon protested, then indicated his shoulder with the blade “Have to open this up to get the heat on it.” 

Confusion knitted the girl's brow as her eyes went to the wound on his side, then to his shoulder, then to the bronze dagger heating up in the fire. Understanding bloomed as she looked back to the knife in his hand. 

“You're mad.” She finally said as if confirming all her worst fears.

“Not mad.” He groaned out as he forced the steel into the puncture in his shoulder and drew it to the side about the length of two finger widths. Then before he could think better of it flipped the edge around and repeated the cut though this time in the opposite direction— his chest heaving the whole time with the effort of holding himself still and  _ not  _ dropping the knife. 

“No… not mad. I’m just more scared of death than… pain.” He gasped the last word out as he pulled the knife free from his flesh and allowed it to drop to the floor with a clater. 

“My lady?” 

She didn’t answer, instead she stared wide eyed at the freely bleeding wound, her face pale as new fallen snow. 

“My lady?” he tried again, beginning to worry. 

Still nothing. 

“Lyanna!” he finally barked, desperate for a response. 

“Yes!” She snapped, her eyes jerking up to his, wide with fear and shock.

In that moment, looking at her, Jon didn’ think he ever seen anyone look  _ so  _ young  _ so  _ much a child. He almost hated himself for what he was about to ask her. 

“Listen to me Lyanna.” He used her given name again, putting an emphasis on the name to make sure she heard him clearly. 

“When I do my shoulder I might pass out. If I do I need you to do the same thing I do but to my side. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” she answered, breath short and if possible eyes even wider than before. 

“That's good lass that's good.” He was beginning to feel the blood loss, he was running out of time. 

“Watch what I do and remember the gods, remember it well… Oh and one last thing.” 

“Yes?” 

“Hot but not red hot. If it’s red hot you have to let it cool.” And with that he drew the now glowing dagger from the fire, took a breath as it hovered over his weeping flesh. Then he pressed down. 

Pain, pain like nothing he’d known before rushed though Jon. It pulled tears from his eyes and froze his chest mid breath. He tried to clench his jaw shut, tried to stay strong. It was a pathetic effort. He didn’t bellow, he didn’t roar, no he cried and begged and sobbed. 

It was only a with a force of will he didn’t know he had that Jon was able to lift the blade up, then upon seeing blood once more well up along the gash to press it back down. 

All the while though he watched, watched as his flesh burned, as if seemed to flow until at last he lifted the searing bronze to see no blood flowing.

With a shudder and sobb of relief Jon lifted the blade and let it too fall to the floor. Finally he could breathe again, and his chest heaved, and he continued to cry freely though now it was from releaf. 

“Snow?” the low, worried voice somehow reached him through the haze of pain. 

Turning to see her Jon was glad to see that Ghost had pressed his head into her side, and her hand had fisted in the thick fur, pricing some small comfort to the no doubt terrified girl. 

“Aye lass?” 

“Are you… I mean…” she trailed off, uncertain and afraid. 

“I’ll be alright.” He motioned to the bronze blade, “But I need you to put that back in the fire.” 

For a brief moment she didn’t move, then slowly at first but moving more quickly with every heartbeat she stooped and took the dagger but it’s antler grip and gingerly slid it back into the malevolent crackling flames. 

“Did it work?” she asked a moment later. 

Jon then noticed her eyes were fixed in a sort of horrified wonder on the red pulsing wound. 

“Aye… it worked…” 

The second time was harder, if that was possible. Lyanna stood at his side the whole time though, her hand resting on his elbow helping to lift the blade free when it was time. 

Realistically Jon knew that in truth it only took a handful of moments to do the deed— but in the pain filled fugue of terror and agony it seemed an eternity. If not for the constant presence of the Mormant lady by his side he wondered if it might have driven him inside. 

As it was he thought it might have as when he drifted off into blessed blackness when it was over he soon found himself looking back at his own body from across the room.

_ He could smell the char of his seared flesh, overpowering as it was through another scent took his attention. The sweet bouquet of blood seemed to hang about all the stone ground and walls of this place. He followed it to it’s main source but was disappointed over and over again to find that it spilled from those Like Father but Not Father, those he was not allowed to heat.  _

_ Huffing in frustration he turned instead to the long path that led across the big nothing to the Hunting Grounds of his Mother’s pack. He could smell them, but it was faint, the old scent left many darknesses ago.  _

_ These lands hunting grounds were fertile. Not a single chest of air away he could smell one of the big elk that populated so much of the land. The rest of his pack would have to hunt together to bring such prey down. But he was not like the others. Moon Mother had blessed him, had licked his brow while was still with his ancestors and had been the one to breath life into him, her power, her howl filled his soul. He needed a pack for happiness not for the hunt.  _

_ The bull elk heard him coming, he allowed it to be so. The chase was good. The moon-kissed earth churning away beneath his paws. All too soon the bull made a mistake and he was upon it, jaws slamming down upon its throat… _

Jon jerked away gagging, the taste of blood still filled his mouth. It’s sanguine warmth still coated his throat. He kept hacking and retching until a jug of something cool was pressed into his hands. Thoughtlessly thankful, Jon tilted it up and gulped down the sweet mead within only relenting with the coppery taint of blood was well and truly drowned. 

“Are you well?” The question was asked in a voice gentle and low. 

“Aye.” He confirmed once his breath had stilled. Only then did he recognize the world around him. 

It seemed to be dawn once more. He was sitting up upon the bed of furs arranged before the fireplace within Westwach keep. Young Lyanna Mormont knelt by his side, dark eyes filled with concern even as a glad smile played across her lips. 

“How long was I asleep” he asked, worried that a fever might have gripped him for who knew how long. 

“Half a day and all the night.” She answered quickly, then continued: “You passed out after closing you wounds. I washed them as best I could with boiled snow and bound them with… with clean cotton.” At this, and the blush creeping up her neck Jon decided to ask no more questions. 

“You have my eternal thanks Lyanna Mormont.” He said instead, moving gingerly to test the wounds. “Yes a fine job you did.” 

With that he stood and glanced about for his clothes. To his surprise he found them handing before the fire, all the blood having been scrubbed out of them.

“I cleaned them,” Lyanna explained as he slowly pulled on his woolen undershirt, the tunic, and finally shrugged on but didn’t tie the gambeson closed. “Also found your horse. The sweet thing ate all I could feed her and was happy for a rub down. Anyway she’s tethered out by the water trough now.” 

“Forgive me for saying this my lady— but no southern knight could ask for a better squire than you have proven to be.” Jon japed, this time managing a true smile in spite of how his shoulder side throbbed. 

“Oh I’m sure.” she replied. 

Once he was dressed Jon gladly set about preparing to leave. Lyanna helped him wordlessly as the getherd food, filled skins with mead, cleaned weapons, and bundled furs. Even so he could tell something was bothering her and Jon thought he knew what. 

“Do you know the fastest route from here back to Bear Island?” He asked as he rechecked the six surviving arrows they had before storing them in the quiver that like so much else had been strapped to the garron’s saddle. 

“No” She replied, tone glumb and defeated. 

“Well we’ll have to ride south along the coast. Any fishing village should do but I hope to find one with a Longboat to use— I’d hate to have to leave this one after going so far on her.” He said, patting the garons rump affectionately. 

“Really?” Lyanna asked, hope and excitement animating her. 

“Aye. Give us a night moving at a good pace and you be home with your kin.” He confirmed. 

The sun had yet to reach its height by the time they set out, Ghost the lazy beast showing up just as they began their trek. 

Walking through the wall for only the second time in his life was a revelation for Jon. He didn’t know who he’d become, or if he was done becoming him yet but he did know he was— at least to himself and to the gods— no longer the Bastard of Winterfell. And when he breathed the air of the North once more he couldn’t keep from indulging in a grin. He still didn’t know where he was going, but for the first time he didn’t mind not knowing where his journey would take him. 

In the end his prediction turned out to be almost spot on. They had to travel south of the Gift, and south of the New Gift before finding a village with a craft long enough to take he, Lyanna, Ghost, and Jenna (Lyanna had finally named the garron) across the Bay of Ice and west to Bear Island. The boat ride though took only a full day, lasting from before dawn to just after sunset. 

When the boat came ashore on one of the sandy beaches overlooked by the shacks of the local fishermen Jon was surprised to find no guards awaiting them. 

“No one cares much to check on every fisher’s boat coming ashore.” Lyanna explained when he asked.

“Don’t worry your pretty head Snow— you’ll not be unwelcome in Mormont Hall.” She added, no doubt after noticing the less than trustworthy or enthusiastic looks he was giving the island she called home.

“Aye so you say.” Jon replied, “So long as you have a chance to explain before the She-Bear smashes my head in with a mace.” 

“Just so!” She agreed with far too much glee by Jon’s point of view as she leaped from the boat, splashing down into the shallows and waded her way up onto shore. 

It would have been obvious to a blind man that the young noblewoman was glad to be hom. Jon could see the way her shoulders settled, How for the first time she seemed to wear her clothes instead of them wearing her, and how the proud posture and tilt of her jaw was no longer just an act. Much to his shame Jon had to admit he really had no idea what this all had been like for her. 

To be taken from one’s home by raiding wildlings, carried off to an unknown but no less terrifying fate. No matter that he’d saved her, she must still be terrified. It was a wonder it hadn’t broken her. But then Jon had to also admit that he knew little of the minds of women, and even less of the minds of Mormonts. 

Shaking himself free from such thoughts Jon instead turned his attention to releasing the bonds holding Jenna down and helping the shaky-legged garron to stumble her own way to shore. Ghost stuck close by him all the while, ears twitching too and fro at every new noise and movement the Island brought him. 

“Stay close— we must ensure we are welcome before you go hunting.” Jon admonished his companion, somehow feeling Ghost’s longing to go seek a fight amongst the island’s animal population. 

After convincing Lyarra to once more ride Jenna— the Mormont girl had protested this their entire journey together, stating that as the injured one he should ride and not walk. Perhaps she was right, Jon had to admit that so much walking hadn’t made his injuries hurt any less. But in truth they weren’t all that bad, hurting him only when he lifted his arm or twisted at the waist.

So Lyanna had been the one to ride, just as she did then as they followed the wedding horspath up from the point they’d beached on and to the harbor— over which Mormont Hall watched from atop a great craggy hill. 

They finally seemed to garner some attention upon entering the harbor town. Not as large as White Harbor, nor any other true city, but Jon still marveled at the town’s size and cleanliness. Stone streets laid out in a clear order, deep gutters, and the lack of the stench that usually went along with a concentrated population spoke volumes of the care House Mormont had for those they ruled over— it also spoke of a wealth Jon hadn't expected to find on the isolated island. 

“Impressive isn’t it?” Lyanna asked, seeing Jon’s surprise, “Beartown is one of House Mormont’s great accomplishments in a good few generations. You’ll have to ask my mother about it though, truthfully the story is hers to tell.” 

“Aye.” Jon acknowledged. 

Despite the curious, and in Jon’s case hostile, looks they got from the citizens of Beartown he and Lyanna went unacosted as they walked through the town and began the trek of the zigzagging path which led up to Mormont Hall. Jon suspected it was the hulking direwolf plodding along beside him that caused this lack of reaction from the population. He suspected that if they thought his intentions were anything but honorable these people might very well rip him limb from limb for so much as looking at the youngest Mormont daughter. Northerners tended to be rather protective of lords and ladies who did right by them. 

The apprehension and worry Jon initially felt over arriving on Bear Island with the recently kidnapped daughter of the ruling noble only increased as the full might of Mormont Hall loomed up above him. 

Several years before, when Lord Stark held a great festival in celebration of his heirs two and tenth nameday Maege Mormont was one of the lords in attendance. Like Lord Wyman Manderly the Lord of White Harbor, Lady Mormont had taken no offence whatsoever at Jon’s presence and whenever possible treated him with the same respect as Robb and Sansa. That said he somehow thought she’d look upon him with less favor in this circumstance. 

His impression of walking willingly into the Bear’s den was only compounded tenfold when they reached the front gate and he was greeted by the image of a fifteen foot tall woman garbed in a bearskin. In one arm she held a suckling babe and in the other a long bladed battleaxe. The effigy had been carved into the great gate that to Jon looked to be Ironwood— and a meter thick. It was an impressive sight to any scale— to a Northman at least. 

A southerner might look at the wooden keep, walls fifty feet high and every inch of them that same black ironwood and only see House too poor to build in stone. Men of the North knew better, knew how ironwood did not shatter or collapse, did not burn, and even in the coldest months did not pull the heat from a heart as stone did. To a Northerner a keep built from ironwood was a sign of the sort of economy and practicality that would ensure you survived winter… 

As the great gate swung outward and Jon caught his first glimpse of the great hall which served as the inner keep for Mormont Hall. It was a two story tall building some two hundred yards in length and a quarter as wide. All of it built from ironwood logs.

It wasn’t the great hall that caught Jon’s attention though. Nor was it the stable, or smoking smithy, in fact it was no part of the keep but rather the towering figure of Lady Maege Mormont who stood in the open gateway. 

She was just as Jon remembered her. Though perhaps she seemed to him even taller than her six and a half feet, and her square features seemed darker than thunderclouds as she glowered down at him. In that moment Jon truly wondered at his future. Or more to the point he wondered if he had one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't all I would like it to be, but after spending too many hours chewing on it I just need to post it and be done with it. 
> 
> Next chapter. Jon must face the dangers within Mormont Hall and navigate the choppy waters of insistent maesters, she-bears, and the reality of a future filled with unknowns. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read, commented, and left kudos! It's amazing to see so many readers-- I don't know if I'll ever get used to the thought of more than a dozen people reading my work! So anyway, it really does mean the world to me knowing you've read this far and might be enjoying my words-- may the gods bless you all and be ever in your favor.


	6. >| The Bear's Den |<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon enjoy's the hospitality of House Mormont.

Ever willing to be one to subvert his expectations, Lyanna did not run to her mother as Jon had thought she would. Instead the young Mormont carefully dismounted Jenna then walked purposefully forward until she stood within arm’s reach of her mother, and there she stopped. 

Tense silence filled the outer yard of Mormont Hall then. And though Jon could not tear his eyes away from the scene playing out before him, he could  _ feel  _ the eyes of the keep’s many denizens watching on.

When the silence was broken it was done so with four words, nothing simple, meaningless, or un-weighty about them.

“I have returned, mother.”

As if a marionette with its strings cut Maege Mormont sank to her knees at the sound of her daughter’s voice. Then without further ceremony she was wrapping the oddly tiny looking girl up in a hug truly worthy of their family’s sigil.

Once she’d released her daughter and looked her over with a worried eye Maege Mormont turned her attention onto Jon. 

Eyes that only a heartbeat before had been filled with kind worry while looking at her returning daughter, turned to cold chips of flint as soon as they settled upon him. At least they did for a moment. 

With her brow creased in a scowl Lady Mormont stepped around her daughter and moved towards Jon, her steps steady and soft as if she were trying to not spook a deer. Jon figured she was doing her best to not spook Ghost as the beast though not fully grown as of yet, was already large enough to threaten even someone as imposing as Maege Mormont. 

This guess proved incorrect when while still a few paces away he saw recognition flash across the Lady’s face, causing a smile wide and warm to replace the scowl.

“Well well well I never thought to see the day when Eddard Stark’s bastard came stumbling into my home— escorting a daughter I’d assumed dead.” The weight of sorrow was still there in her words, but already he could hear it clearing— the storm of her sorrow lifted by Lyanna’s return. 

Though Jon truly wished he had something to say to that, all he could think to say was: “Aye, my Lady.” And sink into a low bow warranted by the height of her station and comparative depths of his own. 

“Aye he says.” Maege mocked, her amusement clear. “Brings my Lyanna back to me and all he’s got to say is ‘aye’. You know lad there was a time when Starks were known to be loud and proud folk. Now Eddard’s go all of you bowing and brooding like fucking Boltons. Too much southern blood if you were asking me.” 

Of everything Jon had expected from his first meeting with the Mormont matriarch, this was not something he’d prepared for. Not only was it shocking to hear that Maege was so familiar and opinionated with and about the Starks but hearing his blood first compared to the Boltons, then to southerners. Well, Jon was feeling the Wolf’s Blood rearing up within him in angry protest. 

Even as he was opening his mouth to protest though, an image of the Sept built by Lord Stark in the heart of Winterfell at the request of his Southern bride forced its way into the forefront of his thoughts. 

To say Jon didn’t like the Faith of the Seven would be like saying the ocean was simply ‘wet’. In the days when the Andals invaded Westerose— they’d begun their attacks by burning every Godswood they came across. And from then on whenever they took a keep or territory they’d claim it as theirs by cutting down all the weirdwoods they found. 

Only Moat Cailin and the impassible marshes of The Neck had stopped the invasion, and saved what remains of the weirdwoods. Since those days all Northmen, and all followers of the Old Gods had never forgotten the fact that the Faith would leap at any chance to destroy the world’s last stronghold of the old ways. 

And yet Lord Stark had not only allowed, but paid for, a sept of the Seven to be built at the very heart of the North— within the Keep many Northmen considered to be built on sacred ground. 

So instead of protesting, instead of defending his father and his blood, Jon shut his mouth and felt his brow furrow in a thoughtful scowl. Had house Stark become too southern? Was Lord Stark not that very moment in the South with his daughters and plans to tie House Stark to a  _ southern  _ throne? 

The questions sent a thrill on unease through Jon, a sense that they were just the first glimpses of something much, much larger that he was yet unable to see. He didn’t like it one bit. 

“Come Snow!” Maege Mormont’s voice snapped him back to the present, “Emmet here will take you steed to the stables— you and that wolf of yours are welcome in Mormont Hall as my personal guests.” 

“My thanks—” Jon was about to ask about a bath, and a bed, but Lyanna interrupted him. 

Pinning both he and her mother with a glare that brooked no argument, she pointed to the single tower— built from ironwood as every other part of Mormont Hall seemed to be— that Jon had seen since arrived on Bear Island. 

“Oh no.” She snapped, “Snow here will be going straight to Maester Tom to see his wounds looked after.” 

“Wounds?” Maege asked, turning that scowl back on as she scanned Jon from feet to scalp. 

“Aye— but I’m fine they—” This time it was the elder Mormont who interrupted him. 

“Oh no. Lyanna’s right off to the maester with you.” And with that she clamped a firm hand on his shoulder and personally guided, or forced him rather, across the yard and up into the tower. 

The Lady of Bear Island maintained her piloting of him all the way to the Maester’s chambers where she knocked twice, then pushed the door open. 

“Yes my lady?” Maester Tom— or who Jon guessed was the maester— asked as he stepped into view from behind a large shelf filled with red clay jars. 

“Tom meet Jon Snow.” Maege introduced him, her casual form of address and attitude a surprise to Jon but clearly not to the Maester who smiled warmly at him in a greeting that none of the reserve he was used to. 

“Jon it seems came across the wildlings who snatched up my Lya— he’s just returned her too us.” 

“Oh that is wonderful news!” Maester Tom exclaimed, his warm smile turning into a truly wide grin. 

“Aye— but it seems the lad was injured for all his efforts.” Maege explained, shoving Jon none to gently forward, “And Lya has declared he needs some looking after.”

“And quite right she is— come my boy lets have a look at these wounds of yours.” Tom said, motioning for Jon to take a seat on a cot set up in the corner of the room. 

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Lady Mormont said, “And Jon?” 

“Aye my lady?” 

“Thank you for bringing her home.” With that the Lady of Bear Island closed the door behind her, cutting off Jon’s mumbled ‘it was nothing’ before the words were even out of his mouth. 

Once she was gone the maester seemed to relax somewhat, the almost brittle tension about his green eyes relaxing. It took years off the man’s face and sent a jolt of sympathy through Jon— it could not be easy, spending years in the Citadel only to be shipped off to what must seem to be a very strange place. One where women fought, ruled, and where even in a time of ‘peace’ war with Wildlings and Ironborn was more of a lifestyle than a worry. 

“Like the Lady said— lets see these wounds of yours,” He said after a beat. 

Whatever Maester Tom had been expecting, Jon knew right away that he wasn’t expecting the two large bandages that were revealed once Jon had shrugged off his gambeson and pulled his tunic and undershirt over his head. 

“Not a bad job.” He commented, even as his bony fingers went to work, undoing the knots holding the fabric in place. 

Jon grimaced as the bottom layer of cotton— which had been glued to the wounds by dried blood— peeled away taking little bits of scab and charred flesh with them. The smell that greeted him was less than pleasant as well, sending a jolt of fear through him as memories of a by then quite dead Stark Guardsmen came back to him. 

The man had been wounded in the leg while bringing the King’s Justice to a band of highwaymen. It started out as just a mild injury— then, days later it had festered. It took weeks for him to die and there’d been nothing anyone could do to save him. Jon still remembered his agonized weeping. Ever since that day no small part of him had feared dying the same way— slowly, in a pile of shit and piss crying out for it all to end. 

And the smell rising up to meet his nose and turn his stomach was the same that had hung about the dying guardsmen.

“Well this… could be worse.” The Maester said. 

As he did so the Maester began to probe the wounds. At first, when he was examining Jon’s shoulder it wasn’t so bad— then he moved to his side and Jon let out a whimper as he felt a searing bolt of pain shoot through him. 

Nodding in resignation the maester stood and stepped over to one of the many sets of overflowing shelves which rose to the ceiling along every wall. After retrieving a leather roll of tools and several of the clay jars he seemed to have been sorting when Jon entered, Tom returned to his bedside. 

“Alright lad— the good part is that your shoulder looks to be healing well. While I don’t advise cauterizing wounds in any but the most dire circumstances it seems to have worked well enough. It’s this gash on your side that’s concerning— what made the wound?”

“Ah,” Jon winced again as the maester took a small metal rod from the roll and went about prodding the wound in several places. “It was a wildling spear— I think it was flint.” 

“That explains it then.” He said with a shake of his head, “It feels like a piece might have broken off inside.” 

“Fuck.” Jon couldn’t keep the curse in as he felt his stomach dropping out from within him in fear.

“Indeed— but not to fear my boy the rot hasn’t gone too far but I’ll have to open this up to get the broken piece out.” 

There was only one response Jon felt appropriate: “Fuck.” 

The next few hours were, in many ways, the longest of Jon’s life. Once Maester Tom had cut away all the dead scorched skin and the scab that had only days before closed over the wound, he began probing, pressing, and more cutting. Then and there Jon decided that he never wanted to get injured again— nothing was worth this sort of pain, not when the way to avoid it was simple; get better… 

Aside from that first day of worry and pain Jon’s time at Mormont Hall proved to be quite pleasant. The Mormonts, and all the people of Bear Island for that matter, proved to be honest and kind, willing to allow him a place by their hearth and food at their table for no other reason than he had done for them without asking. Not once did they call him bastard by way of insult, nor was he ever looked upon with disdain, distrust, or disgust. All in all he felt as if he was amongst men and women of the North for the first time. 

All the while he wondered— if these people were what true Northerners should be, true heirs of the First Men, then why were the Starks so different? Why was the House meant to be the best of the North seeming so un-northern? 

Though Jon had to admit, he may have become somewhat biased when it came to anyone with the name Mormont or clad in the Bear Sigil of that house. If Lyanna’s quick friendship or Maege’s unwavering welcome wasn’t enough— it was a third member of the Mormont clan who ensured this. 

When he first met Dacey Mormont she looked nothing like the Northern Beauty her reputation made her out to be. In fact she looked like no lady at all but rather a veteran warrior returning from campaign. 

It was Jon’s fourth day on Bear Island, he’d only that morning felt the strength return fully to his limbs after Maester Tom’s ‘tender’ ministrations and was breaking his fast at the high table. At first he’d been uncomfortable, sitting in a place of honor to Maege’s left, but by then had learned to enjoy the grey haired matriarch’s hard will and often brutal humor. 

Just as they were finishing the meal the hall’s great double doors flew open with a mighty crash, emitting a towering figure clad in grey steel plate and a brown bear skin cloak that flapped wildly in the wind as they all but ran towards the table. 

Jon felt frozen in place as this warrior came barreling towards him, a spiked mace gripped firmly in their left hand while a greatsword protruded over their right shoulder. 

Without a word the warrior leaped over the table and pulled Lyanna’s chair out before sweeping her up in an embrace not dissimilar from the one Jon had seen Maege give her upon their arrival. As such he guessed that this was another member of House Mormont, though if it was a he, she, sister, or uncle he knew not. He only hoped this Mormont— as heavily armed as they were— would prove to be as gracious and welcoming as the rest. 

“Lya your home!” The words were filled with such joy, such love. Jon’s stomach twisted into a painful knot at the very sound of it. 

Never before had anyone addressed him like that— it had been the same, but somehow not as bad, when Maege had greeted Lyanna. At least when it came from the girl’s own mother Jon could distance himself from it— he somehow  _ knew  _ that his own mother would speak to him just so. But hearing it come from another? From what he now knew to be a sister or aunt? To know that such love could be offered and shown even if you weren’t someone’s mother. He felt at once profoundly happy for Lyanna and the same searing jealousy he’d known every time Lady Stark showed such care for Robb.

Why could his own siblings not speak to him so? Why could they not hold him close when he’d given them all a fright and whisper sweet nothings in his ear so he knew they cared and all would be well? 

These questions had plagued Jon for years, ever since the day he realized that the Lady Stark was not, and could not be his Mother… and that even those raised as his siblings saw him to be  _ different _ . To be the ‘other’. 

Sure Robb cared for him, laughed with him, and on occasion cried with him. But Jon never felt that he loved him, at least not in the way he knew Robb loved Sansa, Bran, Arya, and even little Rickon. The same was true for all the others even Lord Stark— no, even more so for him. 

Arya was the only one who was different. Jon knew she was still too young to show or even knew all she felt, but he’d seen the love in her eyes, the same love and care he felt for all his blood. He wished that was enough, wished that knowing one person in all the world felt that he was worthy of all their love was enough to make him happy, to make him feel as if he belonged. But it wasn’t. It would be if it were Lord Stark or his mother. But if anything only receiving it from Arya made him feel the lack from others all the more keenly. 

The knot in Jon’s stomach tightened into a whole new shape when the unknown warrior released Lyanna and turned to face him. Dark brown eyes filled with an emotion he could not name met his, and when she spoke he could hear plain in her voice, the curiosity and suspicion there. 

“So you're the one who saved my sister?”

“Aye my lady.” He found himself saying, again. 

“A dozen raiders escaped on the longboat that took her. You killed them?” The question came hard and biting, the threat clear for all to hear— should she not care for his answer Jon had little doubt that she’d use the mace she still held. 

Despite the obvious threat Jon could not help the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth, perhaps it was the Mormont habit of pulling no punches and letting shame be a southern concern, perhaps he was simply mad. Whatever the reason as soon as he spoke he realized that he might have signed his own death warrant, but of course by then it was too late.

“At the time it seemed the reasonable thing to do.” 

“Dacey.” Maege’s warning bark came just as the warrior— ‘Dacey’ apparently— took a lurching step towards him as if trying and failing to hold herself back from lunging at him. 

“And now?” Dacey finally asked, after glancing back to catch Maege’s eye. 

Jon gulped, “Now I think I should learn to keep my words to myself, my lady.”

“Aye… he’s Eddard’s boy alright.” She finally said, turning so that she was speaking to the Mormont Matriarch. This naturally seant everyone save for Jon and Dacey into peels of laughter. 

“What?” Dacey demanded, placing her fists on her waist and cocking one hip to the side in a challenging stance. 

“Its… just that mother… said the same thing when she met Jon,” Lyanna replied though her fit of giggling. 

“Hmm.” Was Dacey’s only reply before she pulled out the chair to Jon’s left and sank down into it. 

Once she was settled she reached up and pulled the bear shaped helm off her head, Jon found it suddenly difficult to  _ not  _ look at her. Despite the dirt and what he thought was most likely blood which spattered her from head to toe, he had to admit that she was the most striking woman he’d seen. Not beautiful in the way most would use the word when thinking of a woman— but beautiful in the way the great untamed wilderness is beautiful. She seemed to Jon to be just that, a manifestation of the strong and unbending, yet unerringly generous and kind people of Bear Island. 

As his meal was all but finished Jon had little reason to remain in Dacey’s company. He was almost glad when he begged leave and it was granted by Maege. Only once he stepped out of the hall and allowed the door to shut behind him did Jon feel the breath fully return to his chest. 

_ That  _ was not what he’d expected when he awoke that morning. Nothing could have prepared him for how Dacey Mormont made him feel. Few, in truth only one, women had ever inspired such feelings in him. And as he trudged his way through the misting rain to the Keep’s training yard he had a difficult time keeping his thoughts from straying to very dangerous places. Jon wondered if Dacey Mormont would now feature in his dreams as well. 

When Jon next saw Dacey it was the next day. He’d spent the morning with Mormont Hall’s blacksmith, a leen man named Ulrik who’d been happy to measure him for a sword and to see if there were any blades in the armory that could be fit to him. 

After a brief lunch, which he ate with a few of the guardsmen who he’d struck up an easy friendship with, Jon had decided to spend the afternoon in the yard. 

Ever since his first day in Mormont Hall he’d kept to his new conviction and spent time daily honing his ability to kill— and most importantly to  _ not  _ get hurt again. While Ser Rodrik had focused on the sword when training Robb and by extension Jon, he’d not entirely neglected the spear, mace, axe, and every other weapon of war. 

Torrhen Flint, Master-at-Arms for Mormont Keep on the other hand seemed fond of every weapon  _ but  _ the sword. As a result Jon found himself learning to better wield a spear and shield when Dacey Mormont stalked into the yard. 

Instead of the steel plate in which Jon had first seen her, the heir to Bear Island was garbed as all the women of her house seemed to dress. A woolen dress and breeches under a surcoat emblazoned with bear sigil and a weapon at her belt. 

He felt her eyes pass over him as she glanced about the yard, then as they settled on him when she advanced. 

“Snow. Fancy a spar?” She asked, though her tone left little room for anything but an affirmative. 

“Of course.” Jon replied, nodding before setting aside the spear and taking up a blunted sword from the rack of training weapons. It was patterned after an arming sword rather than the great-swords favored by most Northerners but given Jon’s rather slight build and meager height he felt more comfortable with the smaller blade. 

As he did so Dacey was going through similar motions, though she had to go through the additional preparations of strapping on a set of padded armor— the same that everyone in the yard wore— both to simulate the weight of actual armor and to lend some protection against the blunted training weapons. She strapped on a kite shield like Jon but favored a mace rather than a sword. 

Stepping into the arena marked out with a circle of small white stones they tapped weapons before stepping back and tapping their shields, signaling to Torrhen who had already taken up position to oversee the bout that they were ready. He wasted no time in barking the order. 

“Begin!” 

And just like that Dacey was on him, mace whirling about her in a storm of blows that drove Jon back to the very edge of the arena before he managed to get some weight behind his shield and push him back a step. This gave him just enough room to dance to the side and begin circling around her. 

Already Jon could feel the grin tugging at his lips, he loved this. Back in Winterfell the guardsmen had always taken the time to spar with him— either because they felt like the ‘bastard’ needed to be put in his place, or because they were fond of him and happy to train up the lad they all knew would one day stand at the future Lord of Winterfell’s shoulder. He felt like he was back there, fighting a hopeless bout against one of those battle hardened veterans. 

Though to his credit Jon was doing better than he thought he would. 

After Dacey’s initial blitz he’d been careful to keep moving, to stay light on his feet, and never let her back him into a corner. So far he’d done a good job of it too, leading his opponent-- who was his better in both height, reach, and strength— on the move and chasing him. Though, he knew he could only keep up the delaying game for so long. He was the injured one, the younger one, and she showed no signs of tiring or even slowing. 

So with a grunt and tightening of his chest, Jon went on the attack. It was hard to move forward into the range of that mace and harder still to keep pressing forward as his entire body shuddered with the force of it when the damn thing impacted his shield. 

Cursing, Jon lunged to the side slashing low first then high hoping to catch her with one or the other. Dacey shrugged off the blows with her own shield before raising her mace to strike again. By then though Jon had stepped again so that he was almost behind her and thrust his sword forward to get around her shield. His blow never landed. 

With a twist and flick she’d brought her shield into play and slammed his sword up— sending his thrust harmlessly into the air. Jon was quick to recover though and shrugged off her own attack just as she had. 

The match went on like that for a while, the pair battering away at each other with no real effort in putting an end to it. Though he’d missed it at first Jon soon recognized the hard tension in his opponents brow and shoulders, he’d felt it more than enough to know what it was. Dacey needed to hit something, to fight and fight until her arms were numb and she couldn’t focus on anything but the pounding of her heart. 

Whatever had pissed her off he didn’t know, or care. Jon was just happy for the chance to wear himself out against someone who was so much his better. 

In the end it was to no one’s surprise that Dacey took the victory, tripping Jon after landing an especially hard blow on the top edge of his shield. 

For a moment Jon didn’t move, instead he just let himself sink further into the ground as he gladly gasped air into his lungs in a vein attempt to keep up with the thundering speed of his heart. Sluggishly he unstrapped the shield from his arm before sitting up to see that his opponent had joined him on the ground, copying his shedding of superfluous gear. 

Groaning at the necessity of it Jon stood, then began the laborious task of pulling off the padded armor. It was easy enough at first, then came the part he dreaded as he stretched his arms high to pull the whole thing off in one go. Unfortunately shoulder seemed to have decided that he’d abused the already damaged muscle enough and he couldn’t summon the strength to do so through the pain. 

“Gods damn it.” He cursed, dropping his arms and scowling down at the treacherous joint.

“What's the matter?” 

Jon glanced up to see that Dacey had wandered over. She’d already shed her own armor and looked resplendent— her face flushed from the exertion of their fight, framed by a few strands of her dark brown hair that had escaped the tight braid she seemed to always keep it up in. He also couldn’t help by notice that even with the dress beneath it her surcoat did a rather good job of highlighting her wide hips and full chest. 

Feeling his mouth go dry at the vision before him Jon had to swallow a few times, and shake himself a little to ensure his mind was free to function.

“Nothing my lady.” He tried to say, to which she only raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, disbelief clear. 

When she showed no sign of giving up Jon repented, “I pushed a little hard out there, now my arm...” He trailed off lamely, not wanting to whine in front of the Lady. 

“What’s wrong with your arm? Did you hurt yourself?” The genuine concern in her voice didn’t surprise Jon, not after how her sister and mother had treated him-- but is still sent a thrill through him to hear it in her voice specifically. 

Even so he wasn’t so pathetic that he’d lost the ability to think and speak… yet. So he managed to reply “It happened when I was— well when I found your sister.” 

Dacey’s eyes went wide, before narrowing in a scowl “You were injured saving my sister and your already training? That was what two sennights ago!” 

“Just a few days less.” He replied after a moment's thought, flushing in embarrassment. 

Shaking her head Jon thought for sure Dacey was about to yell at him, lecture him, or otherwise voice the disapproval her scowl communicated that she clearly felt. He was surprised therefore when instead of doing any of that she stepped up beside him and began helping him to tug the armor off. Relief flooded through him once the hateful garment was off and he could once again let his arm fall. He took some pride in not cradling it to his chest in front of the beautiful warrior. 

“Will you be alright now?” 

He nodded, then seeing her look added “No really I’ll be quite well. Maester Tom says I’m healing well. And we seemed to have stopped the other one from festering in time.” 

At that something Jon couldn’t identify flitted across Dacey’s face, and he was sent into even deeper confusion when she took his hand in hers and began dragging him out of the training yard. 

“Um where are we going?” He asked as they entered the main hall and towards the living quarters. 

“To get mead.” Was her only response, then a moment later once she’d sat him down in a chair by the fire she explained; “Now you're going to tell me exactly what happened-- Lya told me some of it but she only saw the end.” 

What with House Mormont’s excellent mead and the fact that since it was her sister that he’d saved Jon felt like she had a right to know, Jon soon found himself speaking to her of the whole damn story. From his long flight from the wildling war-band to arriving at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, to discovering the wildlings were cannibals and resolving to put an end to them. 

By the time Jon finished his tale they’d both drunk more than was probably wise. The evening had come and the fire’s crackle filled the small room Dacey had shoved him into with a warm dancing glow. It was this glow that highlighted Dacey’s high cheekbones, her square jaw and gleaming eye— eyes that Jon realized with a jolt were watching him with the same intensity he was watching her.

“Tell me Jon— do you know the story of House Mormont?” Dacey asked a moment later, eyes never leaving Jon’s. 

“Which one?” He asked, only half in jest. House Mormont was legendary in the north for a great many reasons. 

“The one about where Mormont women find husbands.” She answered evenly. 

“Aye I’ve heard that one— the legend goes that Mormont women lay with bears.” He confirmed unabashedly, the mead loosening his tongue. 

“That’s what they say.” Dacey agreed, Jon’s eyes snapped down to follow her hands as they began sliding up from her knees, “But I wonder, maybe one of us should try it with a wolf?” 


	7. >| Northern Steel |<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon prepares to journey on.

It was very odd for Jon, waking up and realizing he wasn’t in a bed. Sure he’d spent plenty of nights sleeping beneath the stars in his short life— whether it was due to crying himself to sleep before the Heart-tree in Winterfell’s godswood, camping out during a hunt, or getting lost for days in the Wolfswood; it was just a fact of life.

In all those cases though he remembered _going to sleep_ in the open, and he’d awaken to the biting cold of predawn morning feeling stiff and soar. Instead he awoke not in bed, with the sun’s warm light caressing his face, a fire crackling away beside him and most importantly; a warm body pressing into him.

Jon proceeded to panic.

What had he done? How many times had he sworn to himself, promised, that he’d father no bastards? How many times had he listened to and agreed with his father’s rants against men dishonoring women for nothing but their own pleasure. Short though it may seem to older men Jon’s was a lifetime of carefully curated restraint and control— he rarely permitted himself to lose his temper, the idea of losing control with the fairer sex was… disturbing.

Most of all, above all other questions racing through Jon’s mind the one that stood out the most was, who? Much to his embarrassment and he was sure, future shame, he could only remember fragmented glimpses of the previous night.

His pounding skull told him all he needed to know of _why_ he remembered so little.

Steeling himself for what he knew this would lead to, Jon pulled slightly away from the body he new realized was lying mostly on top of him and craned his neck to get a look at _who_ it was. He felt ice run through his veins when he instantly recognized the face resting on his chest – Dacey Mormont, heir of House Mormont. He was so dead.

As if his movement woke her Dacey moaned and cracked open her eyes. He saw the same confusion that had met him upon awakening flash across her face – though it cleared for her quicker than for him, and when she looked up at him it was a with a smirk that sent a thrill through him.

“Good morning little wolf.” She crooned, her husky tone doing all sorts of pleasant things to Jon’s insides.

“Um… good morning my Lady.” His reply was awkward as could be, his discomfort clear.

Dacey didn’t help, at his ‘my Lady’ she rolled her eyes and shifted her body enough that he noticed just how much of her bare skin was touching his, and to put a finer point on it – _where_ they were touching.

“I think Jon.” She said, shifting again “That after last night you’ve earned the right to call me by my name.

“Aye, maybe so… Dacey.” How Jon managed to speak through his suddenly dry throat he had no idea, she felt rather too good rubbing against him as she was.

With the effect she was having on him clear Dacey only seemed to grin wider, almost gleefully.

“Come now Jon. Don’t tell me your feeling bashful _now.”_ She admonished, her hand rising up to trace circle patterns around the thick and still angry red gash on his shoulder.

All the while the previous night was slowly drifting back into Jon’s mead tortured mind, the fog lifting like snow burnt away by the bright morning sun. Oh gods forgive him, he was in trouble.

If he’d been hard before Jon became painfully so when Dacey pushed herself up so that she was straddling his hips and took his hands in hers, dragging them upward. “Come now _little_ wolf – we have all day.”

  
  
  


By the time they left the room which Jon would later learn was a privet meeting room, the sun was already beginning it’s decent down towards the horizon.

Despite the days strenuous activities Jon was feeling refreshed. In all honesty more refreshed than he’d been in a good long time – it was almost like he’d spent the day soaking in Winterfell’s hot springs, only so much better.

Thus he headed for the forge where he could hear Ulrik the Smith bagging away with hammer and anvil. When Jon entered he found the wiry man scowling passed his tremendously bushy eyebrows at a steel breastplate laid out on the work-table to one side of the forge; a seemingly never-ending stream of cursing and other exclamations issuing from his mouth as he tried to work a dent out of the hardened steel.

“Ah Snow thank the gods below!” Ulrik said upon noticing Jon, “Come lad – save a old man from this hateful bitch!”

The smith’s pleading tone was so incongruous with the man’s appearance that Jon couldn’t help but to grin appreciatively. Ulrik had proven during his brief stay to be one of the most agreeable fellows he’d ever met.

“And why should I do that – it seems to appreciate you well enough?” he asked, smirking at the indignant and entirely good humored rage that flashed across the smith’s face.

“Ungrateful brat!” Ulrik bellowed, stomping away from the work-bench and over to a rack of swords. “Get over here, I’ve found a few that may work for you.”

Jon opened his mouth to ask but Ulrik answered before he even had a chance to speak the first word.

“Aye lad – I’ll have you know Lady Maege gave permission to forge you a new blade altogether but like you asked their from the armory.” Then in a low grumble he no doubt fully intended Jon to hear added: “What kind of a swordsmen turns down a personalized casleforged blade I just don’t know – time beyond the wall must have turned him mad.”

Without further complaint though he retrieved three swords from the rack and laid them out on a clear bench. Just with a single glance Jon could tell Ulrik-- and whoever else had forged these blades-- knew their work well.

The first two Jon picked up were wrong. Flawlessly constructed though they were, and very near the right fit for his stature and style too, Jon knew he’d not be comfortable with neither the single handed blade nor the greatsword. Both were too far in one direction or another.

So it was the third blade he really paid attention to. Jon knew it was old simply from the design; a longsword though it was the grip was slightly shorter than on modern equivalents as was the blade. And speaking of the blade, unlike other longswords he’s seen and wielded which were only slightly more than two fingers wide at the base of the blade-- this one was closer to four and tapered the whole length to a wicked point.

“Good choice lad.” Ulrik agreed as soon as he saw the look of appreciation flash across Jon’s face, “That’s an old weapon to be sure but I tested the steel and its still hard and tough.”

Smiling at the smith’s efforts, he wrapped both hands around the swords hilt. It was wrapped in leather so old it had gone dry and cracked, but that was easy enough to fix. He grinned at the weight of it though, slicing through the air in a few practice swings.

“Aye-- this will do.” He agreed, “You have my thanks Ulrik.”

“Nonsense lad – it’s rather quite little as far as payment goes for what you did. You’ll have friends for all your days here my boy, Lady Lya might not be he heir but we all love her.” Ulrik replied, clapping Jon on the shoulder and meeting his eye to make it clear just how serious he was being

“Northmen must stick together.” Jon replied, then with a sad smile added, “Winter is coming.”

“Now.” Ulrik shook himself slightly as he turned back to his work, “I have a scabbard for that cleaver around here somewhere…”

It took him a moment but sure enough he eventually turned to Jon holding out a brown leather wrapped scabbard. When Jon sheathed his new sword and turned it over he was surprised to see a line of runes running down it’s length, burned into the leather.

“What are these?” He asked, running a finger along the jagged symbols.

“Ah.” Ulrik looked suddenly uncomfortable, “It’s a blessing in the old tongue-- a warrior’s prayer that dates back to the Age of Heroes… I engrave it on part of anything I make, to bring our warriors home safe and since I didn’t know where you’ll go from here I thought…” He trailed off, worry creasing his brow.

Appreciation bloomed in Jon’s chest, for the sentiment if nothing else. No mater the fact that he felt he didn’t deserve it, and tried to tell them that, the people of Mormont Hall had in a week made him feel more at home than all his years in Winterfell.

“You honor me master smith.” Jon replied, bowing his head in thanks-- hoping it would hide the moisture welling in his eyes.

“Ga be done with you.” Ulrik snapped. Then with a grin “Go on now-- go try that cleaver out.”

After one last round of thanks Jon did just that, heading to the wooden dummies used for training and moving through several of the basic forms he’d drilled at since he was seven. The new, or rather old, sword was heavier than he was used to, but at the same time better balanced as well, so that it sang and whipped through the moves will all his usual speed but a good deal more power.

With a good sword in hand Jon felt suddenly better about the journey he had planned. He felt his chances of surviving it had just gone up a good deal.

The idea for it had started on his third day at Mormont Hall. Maester Tom had been good enough to allow Jon access to his library, access he’d been happy to take advantage of. He’d pored over maps of the Seven Kingdoms, and picked Tom’s brain about the different kingdoms, trade, and general tone of Westeros for the whole day.

Far from annoyed with him the Maester seemed almost over the moon to find someone interested in discussing such academics.

It didn’t take much for Jon to allow himself to be talked out of ever wanting to visit King’s Landing. At first he’d wanted to go so as to visit his father and tell him he was nether a deserter nor dead, Tom’s description of the city, the people, and the lethal plotting which infected it killed that idea quickly.

Similarly Jon had little interest in the Riverlands, Westerlands, Crownlands, and the Reach. None of the provided the guarantee of employment he needed, at least not for a bastard. That left the Stormlands and Dorne. The Stormlands for their current ever pressing demand for trained fighters; ever since the Robert’s Rebellion and the Greyjoy Rebellion their armies had been seriously undermanned – and the King keeping most of what was left stationed in the Crownlands didn’t help the matter either.

There was also Dorne. Tom was convinced it would be easy for Jon to find work there, either as a bodyguard or mercenary protecting the many ships and caravans traveling from Dorne to and through Essos. And if the high likelihood of honest work wasn’t appealing enough, Jon quite liked the idea of the Dornish attitude towards bastards. That is, they didn’t think them to be evil, plotting, and worth of hate and scorn by habit.

So he’d decided to travel to Dorne. There were ships sailing from Bear Island to Barrow via the Saltspear, from there he could ride easily too White Harbor where it with any luck he’d find a ship sailing south. His only remaining issue was one of funds.

Ulrik had been happy to trade Jon a few silvers for the bronze spears he’d taken from the wildlings at Westwatch, saying that the metal itself could be reworked into ordimants and hardware. Any Lyanna had easily agreed to buy Jenna from him as the pair had bonded throughout their journey. By the time he’d purchased food, new clothes, and other sundries Jon found his purse lighter than he’d like.

It was no matter though. By his seventh day at Mormont Hall he felt he was nearing the time when he’d be taking advantage of their hospitality. That, and the ship he signed on to as a rowman and guard was due to set sail in two days time.

As with the rest of his time with her Jon would never speak of that last day he spent with Dacey. They rode out at dawn deep into the thick forests of Bear Island – losing themselves in the untamed lands, and in each other. For years Jon would never understand why she’d chosen to giver him her favor, he simply could not understand someone who lived in a world so different form the one he’d been raised in. Never the less he enjoyed it. Enjoyed it more perhaps due to the newness and strangeness of it all.

For that last day though he thought none of this. Instead finding himself happy to become lost in her eyes deep and joyful, in her words soft and sure, and in her body willing and strong…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter today. The depression of isolation is kicking in and making it hard to produce/care. Hopefully things will swing around in a bit. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments; they are super appreciated.


	8. >| Cost of the Iron Price |<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's voyage from Bear Island is interrupted by unexpected visitors and he faces for the first time the price he must pay for carrying the blood of a Noble Lord within his veins. Bastard or not Jon is a noble.

“Come on row you bastards row!” Captain Wyl roared, spittle flying from his lips as he turned about to scowl at the Ironborn raider bearing down on the _Dancing Bear_ from astern.

Jon, his limbs gleaming from sweat worked up at the rowing bench now stood on deck of the trade cog tying his gambeson shut and checking to ensure the straps of his shield were still tight.

They’d first spotted the raider on the horizon that morning, and had been spotted in return. Since then Wyl had done his best to outrun them, but the _Dancing Bear_ was a trade ship designed to make the most of every voyage with a large cargo hold and steady pace. Just the sort of prey the Ironborn hoped for.

Now Jon would ear the extra silver stags he’d be payed at the end of their voyage along with every other man who’d signed up as both hand and guard. Once again he was glad of his new sword. Long for shipboard fighting as it was, Jon knew it’s weight and razor’s edges would be welcome in the fight to come.

“Ready now lads those fuckers’ll be on use soon!” Wyl bellowed out, giving up on escaping the fight and instead readying the pair of hand axes that seemed always at his belt.

For his part, Jon grinned. Now that the fight was inevitable he felt the fear and worry slipping away; well not really away, as it wasn’t gone, but rather receding into the back of his mind as the rest of the world shifted into tighter focus. The Ironborn had raided and raped the North for centuries, they were more sworn enemies to Northman than Wildlings and the Faith Militant – and now he had the chance to exact some small revenge for all of it.

When the _Dancing Bear_ pulled in her oars and heaved too it seemed that the Ironborn expected a surrender, as instead of ramming them and boarding in force they too slowed and drew up alongside her.

All the while the two ships were slowing, and drawing closer and closer together, Jon could feel the tension in his chest growing. It expanded from a small knot to a huge roiling mass the prickled and pulled at him until it felt as though his back was pulling away from his spine. His head pounded, and he could hear the Wolfsbood howling away in his ears demanding its fury be unleashed.

By the time the Ironborn were throwing grappling hooks onto the _Dancing Bear_ and pulling her in close Jon nearly ready to leap over the side and go on the attack. But he wasn’t stupid nor did he particularly want to die.

Instead he stood side by side with the other armed men, locking his shield in with theirs and drawing his sword.

When the Ironborn came, they came fast and hard, slamming into the defenders shield in a sporadic and chaotic wave that broke none. After that first charge Jon was done waiting and bellowed his rage as he stormed forward leading with his shield.

The first man Jon met was no skilled fighter, nor was he wearing any armor of not. He fell when Jon battered aside his shield and sank his blade deep through the man’s chest-- muscle and bone both giving way to the unrepentant steel.

Unusually, Ghost proved to be of no help whatsoever. As Jon hacked, chopped, and butchered his way through the Ironborn – being ever careful to keep at least one ally beside him at all times – he spared a glance to the bow of the ship where the pale Direwolf had taken up position when their journey began. Great coward that he was, Ghost had not moved so much as an inch from the tight ball he’d curled up in.

Of all the things Jon expected to defeat Ghost, the ocean was never one of them. Ghost had other ideas it seemed, and from what Jon could tell nothing would dislodge the great beast – not even the scent of fresh spilled blood and a good fight.

As such he had no aid from his companion when an huge Ironborn came barreling at him and slammed into Jon’s shield will all the weight of his hulking form. Not for the first time Jon found his slight frame to be a near fatal weakness when, with a startled shout Jon was sent lurching back, hes feet gone from beneath him. He landed a heartbeat later, his back slamming into the deck hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs and steal the strength from his limbs.

Gasping for a desperate breath and scrambling about for his sword, which had flown from his grip when he landed, Jon felt a bolt of fear rip through the strange calmness that had until that point silenced all the terror of battle.

The big Ironborn was above him then; grey bearded matted with the filth of dried meals and spittle, only highlighting his rotting grin that split a craggy face – the very visage of mad death.

With fear’s icy grip holding firm to his heart Jon found that he could not move. His limbs would not obey his commands and he would later wonder at why, or rather how, in those brief seconds as the Ironborn lifted his axe, he had the time to think of her.

Somehow it made a horrid sort of sense that it was _her_ to teach Jon the meaning of honor and of duty. His father had tried of course, and seemed to succeed when it came to Robb, Bran, and even Sansa. But Jon never felt settled with Lord Starks explanations or examples.

“ _Duty is doing what must be done to aid those beneath you even when it means your own pain or lose.”_ He’d said, explaining it to all his children one night after – at dinner – Robb asked him why he spent so much time on Lordly duties instead of with them.

Similarly the Lord of Winterfell had explained that Honor was never asking of someone else what you were not willing to do yourself. He’d said that an honorable man never did anything if he wouldn’t be willing to confess it to his children.

Without knowing why Jon somehow felt this must be false. After all, if it were t true, then men of Honor must not exist at all, and Duty was ignored far too often.

Then, one day after catching Arya planning a fairly vicious prank on her sister Jon had found himself forced to bring the little demon to see her mother. Usually he’d not have done so, but the Lords of the North were visiting for the Great Council as they did every year – and if she’d succeeded Arya may well have casused enough trouble to undermine the peace.

“ _Tell me child –”_ The Lady Stark had explained after a blistering lecture in which she cut her youngest daughter down to tears, _“All men and women have a duty to three things. Lastly they have a duty to their kings and lords. Secondly they owe allegiance to whatever gods they follow. And firstly their duty is to their family. Remember this always little one – family comes first. That means serving, protecting, and doing right by your family whenever possible. Do that and never again will I be so ashamed of you.”_

Her words had been harsh, but also true. It took Jon many years to understand the full meaning of them though. In fact he’d really not understood their full truth until that fateful day when he turned his horse west and rode away from the Night’s Watch. Aye, he had a duty to serve the North that stemmed from his beliefe in the Old Gods and his Duty to the Lord of Winterfell – but it was to House Stark that he must serve first. And he could serve his family not at all from the Wall. No mater what he did in life he could serve House Stark better than if he’d sworn himself to a life of misery there.

And it was this, the memory of his duty to House Stark explained to another by pale full lips that returned the life to Jon’s arms as the axe of an Ironborn raider descended towards his skull. He could do Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and even Sansa no good sworn to the Wall with only cowards and criminals to fight beside. And he could do them even less good by dying at the hands of a fucking Ironborn.

Lurching to the side Jon just managed to roll his bold out of the axe’s way. And as the iron blade buried itself into the deck beside him he wasted no time in lashing out with both feet – catching the Ironborn a glancing blow across one knee, and square in the groin.

Jon felt the savage grin returning to his face as the man’s face drained instantly of blood as he sank to the deck, a soundless howl etched across his ugly face as he curled in on himself.

It was a bad way to die, feeling that sort of soul wrenching pain. And were he not Ironborn Jon might have given him a moment’s rest to feel something other than the breath snatching agony that came with a blow to the balls. Instead he felt a keen satisfaction as he threw himself upon the Ironborn, drawing and sinking his dirk up under the man’s ribs in one desperate scramble of motion.

Blood splashed out from the Ironborn’s body as Jon drew the blade back, joined by even more when he repeated the action a half dozen times.

The battle-fury still had a grip on his soul as Jon returned his attention to the rest of the fight only to find it was all but over.

Even as he moved to aid those still fighting, the remaining Ironborn were dropping their weapons or falling to their knees in surrender. The crew of the _Dancing Bear_ may only be merchant sailors trying to make an honest wage with the work of their own two hands, but they were men of Bear Island, which Jon had learned meant that once they were moving to violence, they had more fight in their souls and bodies that anyone could imagine or predict.

For the first time in his life Jon really understood the stories he’d heard about Mormont heavy infantry breaking the defenders of Pyke, and smashing southern cavalry during Robert’s Rebellion. They might be good and kind people who welcomed a bastard into their halls, but when the time came for violence they held all the ice of the North within their hearts as they cut away at those who opposed them.

As Jon retrieved his sword a scowl bloomed across his brow. In the silence after the battle he could hear Wyl and his first mate, a man named Yorn, dissuading what to do with the prisoners. The Captain wanted to keep them and let the lord of Barowton decide their fate. The downside of this was that there wasn’t enough food onboard to feed another three and ten men for the week it would take to finish the voyage, meaning they’d have to take several days ashore to hunt and resupply – this would delay a journey that had already been slowed by poor weather even more which the crew would not like one bit.

Yorn on the other hand wanted to take the Ironborn’s weapons and set them free, stating it would save the most time and that as merchants they didn’t have the right to imprison free men.

Jon had no issue with prolonging his journey to hunt Northern lands, the extra time would effect his goals and pay not at all. That said he did have issues with freeing the Ironborn – namely that they raided the North regularly and would do so again. There was no telling how many men they’d killed, or women and children they’d raped.

The very idea of setting such men free, the very possibility of it being an option, chilled Jon’s blood. The merchant sailors may not have the right to imprison the Ironborn-- on that score at least Yorn was right-- but Jon was not just a merchant sailor. Base-born or not he _was_ the son of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. His was the blood of House Stark, and with that blood came a Duty to the North, it’s people, and it’s laws.

So Jon did not remain silent, nor did he wait for the Captain and First Mate to make their decision. Instead he retrieved his sword and moved to stand before the Ironborn who’d bound hand and foot.

“Men of the Iron Islands.” He spoke passed the lump in his throat, wishing he still felt the rage of battle that would fuel his words and deeds more easily. Were they attacking him, were they unbound and able to act upon their own will he would have enjoyed this. But bound and helpless as they were? Jon felt only the crushing weight of each word he dragged from his suddenly dry mouth.

Though perhaps this was for the best. As it was his words boomed out across the deck, landing on each ear to hear them with all the weight he felt when speaking them. Instantly he felt six and twenty fear and hate filled eyes land upon him.

“You have proven by your own deeds to be raiders and reavers. You are accused of piracy, of murder both committed and attempted, and of committing an act of war against the Kingdom of the North and her people. Do you deny these charges?”

His words were met with only confusion and anger.

Then one of the older and more veteran Ironborn spoke up. His breastplate was painted with the argent scythe of House Harlaw, a breastplate that along with the rest of his garb seemed of better quality than the rest of the raiders. “I am guilty only of failing to kill all of you! Quit you blithering boy and take us to whatever lord you serve, I grow tired of your voice.”

“Your words are heard.” Jon replied, then glanced about at the rest of the captives, “Anyone else? Your silence shall be taken as an admission of guilt.”

By then the Captain and the rest of the sailors had recognized Jon’s words for what they were, had realized what he intended and were sharing looks of both shock and worry. Still, none of them interfered.

When still no-one else answered him after a pregnant pause Jon nodded in acceptance.

“Very well.”

With that he motioned to two of the bigger men who like him were signed on as guards and pointed at the nearest Ironborn, “Bring him here and hold him fast.”

Pausing only to glance at one another the pair did as he commanded, sizing the Ironborn and dragging him forward. Still the prisoners did nothing but grumble and glare their hatred towards him, Jon wondered if they didn’t know what was to come. Not that it mattered.

“What is your name?” He asked, looking the Ironborn in the eye.

He was surprised when the man answered. “Kean.”

Only one word but it would do.

“Kean of the Ironborn by or own actions. By the witnesses who stand before you. And by your own admission of guilt you have been found guilty of murder and piracy. In the name of Lord Eddard Stark Lord of Winterfell I Jon Snow sentence you to death. If you have any last words speak them now or save them for your gods…”

Another pregnant pause filled the air, thick with sudden shock and fear as Kean's face morphed into a sudden mask of terror. The pair of guardsmen too seemed shocked that Jon was planing to do the deed then and there; even so they were Northman, loyal to House Stark and didn’t hesitate to hold him tighter as he began to struggle against them.

“No!” Kean cried out, all the terror in him sounding out in that one cry. “Please no! Don’t do this! You don’t have to...”

It struck Jon then, how young Kean of the Ironborn was. Beneath his weather scarred face and patchy beard he looked barley more than twenty – young by most scores. But not so young as to deserve more mercy than a quick sentence.

“Yes.” Jon said sadly, “I do.”

With that he motioned to them men holding him, understanding they placed their hands on his back and forced him to lean forward over his knees.

Jon stepped forward, raised his sword, and brought it down in a smooth arc. The ancient sword’s edge, honed fresh by the master smith Ulrik of Bear Island slowed only slightly as it cleaved through Kean of the Iron Islands’ neck. A gout of blood sprayed across the deck, joining that of Bear Islanders and Iron Islanders which already stained the pine.

It shouldn't be so easy, Jon knew. But he felt nothing as the man’s – no, the corps’ – head rolled a few feet before coming to a stop atop the rocking deck of the Dancing Bear.

“Put the body on their longboat.” He commanded, and once it was done he turned to the next man, ignoring the Wyl’s wide horrified eyes as he asked “What’s your name.” To the next man in line.

“Sarrac of Old Wyk.”

Later Jon would wonder at that, why every one of the Ironborn looked him in the eye and declared their name for all to hear. Maybe they wanted to go to their god without fear, maybe they wanted all the Northmen to know the names of the men they were killing. Perhaps they even though that he’d spare them if their name struck some cord in his heart, it didn’t.

Kean of the Iron Islands.

Sarrac of Old Wyk.

Chass of Old Wyk.

Shale of Blacktyde.

Arton of Harlaw.

Erner of Harlaw.

Shale of Great Wyk.

Duran of the Iron Islands.

Urman of Harlaw.

Jax of Harlaw.

Orwen of the Iron Islands.

Irath of Pyke.

The names weighted down on Jon, each on making the blade feel heavier and heavier in his hands until it felt almost impossible to lift. Finally though, it was done and all that remained was the man bearing the sigil of House Harlaw, the man who alone had declared his innocence.

Turning to him Jon felt the raw hate pouring off the man as he strained at the ropes and men holding him back.

“Name yourself.” Jon demanded of him.

“Hotho of House Harlaw.” Replied the man, then with a vicious grin added “And I demand trial by combat.”

Jon felt his eyes widening, felt the eyes of all the Northmen snap to him. Every one of them were waiting. They’d stayed silent, supported him as he a bastard carried out justice in their lords name. Now they watched, waiting Jon thought to see if he would continue to follow the law.

Though he hated to do it Jon motioned for the men holding Hotho to release him. He’d chosen to act by the law, and Hotho was within his rights to have whatever sort of trial he saw fit-- no mater how he hated all Ironborn Jon knew he couldn't ignore the law. He had to do his duty.

“Very well Hotho of House Harlaw. You shall face me Jon Snow in a trial by combat – the gods will decide your guilt. Release him.”

With that Jon moved quickly to the center of the deck and waited for the guardsmen to unbind Hotho and return his sword to him.

It was without further words or ceremony they began. Hotho, driven by rage and hate charged Jon with a bellow of fury. Sadly for Jon though it was not the charge of a mad berserker of enraged barbarian and as their blades clashed Jon’s brow furrowed. Hotho was skilled with a blade, castle-trained by a master-at-arms or even a knight, and with the experience to put that training to good use.

Quickly Jon found himself at a disadvantage. He was outmatched by size, strength, experience, and skill. In other words, he death was near at hand. And he loved ever second.

Like when he’d crossed blades with the Stark or Mormont guardsmen Jon felt his pulse quicken and heart leap as their blades clashed and he was driven back as Hotho rained down a mercilious storm of blows upon him.

A roar of pain and joy escaped his lips as Hotho’s blade danced around a poorly timed parry and opened a gash across the forearm he raised to defend his neck. If he’d been any slow his throat would have been cut and his lifeblood would be pouring out onto the deck to join that of the men he’d executed.

Taking the chance presented when Hotho’s swing over-reached after failing to kill him Jon moved into is opponent, pressing forward with a series of quick thrusts that had Hotho struggling to recover and defend himself. In his anger, controlled as it was, the reaver had opened himself and Jon was just skilled enough to capitalize on the opening. His advantage faded fast though as soon as it won him a hit.

When Jon drove his sword into Hotho’s unguarded thigh, instead of recoiling or crumpling as he’d expected, Hotho dropped his own sword and grabbed hold of the blade of Jon’s. First he yanked it free from his own leg, then tore it free from Jon’s grip. And with the bellow of a madman Hotho was on him, raining blow after blow upon the smaller man.

Jon retreated as quickly as he could, mail clad fists pounding into arms he’d raised to protect his head until he found himself slammed up against the gunwale. But Hotho, so blinded by pain and rage, continued onward, barreling both he and Jon over the edge and into the ocean. All the while he continued to pummel Jon.

Before the fall Jon was feeling the cost of so many heavy blows. His body was tiring quickly and his mind it seemed was slowing with it. All the world was closing in about him, blocked out by the shock and fear of pain.

They there was the water. All around him and colder than any wind or snow a boy of summer could know it pressed down on him from all sides, snatching at his breath and seeking to drain the life from him. And Hotho was there still, murderous hands reaching, grasping, for flesh, for bone and sinew, their soul purpose now was to cause pain and inflict suffering upon him.

This and so much more assailed Jon as he sank deeper and deeper into the depths, farther and farther from the dimming light of life, and darkening of day.

Then his had once more found the dirk at his belt. The blade that had never failed him, that had saved him so many times once again flashed out. Slowed by the hateful water Jon could not strike and strike and strike again as his blood demanded he do. Instead he contented himself with a single slow thrust – driving steel once more into flesh. Then he jerked, twisted, and dug deeper.

Hotho was till moving, but now it was in desperation and pain instead of rage. Suddenly he was jerked away from Jon by his own thrashing, somehow having the faculties still to pull away from that which was causing him such pain.

Some part of Jon’s fogged mind was ready for this though and he clutched on to the handle of his ever loyal weapon, ripping it free from the man’s flesh...

When Jon was next aware of the world around him he was sitting upright of the deck of the Dancing Bear. Blood and saltwater pooled around him as he wretched up what felt like half the ocean, then gasped in searing lungfuls of the sweetest air he’d ever known. He fell back then, careless of the filth coating him, of the wide eyes and nervous looks the sailors sent him.

Once again he was alive. He was alive and others were not. A man had died so that he could live – and he’d not been the first. How many had it been now?

That question chilled Jon’s heart more than the frozen oceans ever could. He didn’t know. There had been the dozen wildlings at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge and at least one during his flight from the Wildling raid north of the wall. But how many had he killed before the Ironborn surrendered? He’d executed three and ten of them. And there was Hotho to. Seven and twenty? Nine and twenty? How many more? Would he spill, bathe in a river of men’s blood before he was done? How many lives was his worth?

None. None at all.

But he’d kill again, Jon knew it as certainly as he knew the sun would soon set. The gods it seemed had chosen a bloody path for him to walk, and he’d be damned if he shrunk from it after all he’d overcome already.

Now if only he could really _believe_ any of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not everything it could be, I'll be the first to admit that. And some of the character moments for Jon feel a little forced or unearned to me. I just feel so pressed to produce SOMETHING these days that I'll take whatever I can get. And sadly for you, my poor readers, your the one's taking the brunt of my less than stellar story telling. 
> 
> I'm not that great at writing emotions over an extended narrative, so I'm really learning as I go. So, sorry! 
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoyed this chapter despite some of its wholes. Thanks for reading all this way! 
> 
> May harmony find you.


	9. >| Dreams |<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visited by strange visions in his sleep Jon is glad to put his short journey across the Barrowlands and see White Harbor looming on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Night_Eyes, Azor_Ahaerys, and Azor_Stargaryen for being the best sort of readers!

It seemed to Jon that no matter what he did, no mater how peaceful or combative the day, no matter how weary or restless he was; he was always doomed to dream.

Once upon a time, when he’d yet to grow old enough to determine the reality of his world, he thought he was cursed by the Gods. He’d dream every night of walling the ancient crypts beneath Winterfell. There he’d be set upon by the Kings of Winter, Stark men who ruled as Kings in antiquity. They’d rant and rave against him, yelling out that he was not welcome, that he did not belong. Every night he’d wake up, his heart sized with iron bands of terror and lie away until dawn, fearing when the next night came and he’d once again have to face the angry ghosts.

So long as he slept within the walls of Winterfell Jon would have that dream, though as the years passed there were fewer and fewer angry ghosts damning his presence. By the time he left for the Wall their nightly cursing seemed to Jon to have grown almost tired… But that was his imagination he was sure.

And so to was his thoughts of being damned. He realized this once he learned that the dreams were not always the same, that when he slept outside of Winterfell he could dream of wonderful happy things.

He’d been eight when, during a expedition with Robb, Theon, and Ser Rodrik he slept beneath the stars in the Wolfswood and first dreamed of his mother. Since that day he’d spend any night he was able to outside. Never once did he see her face, not fully at least, but he saw smile from behind cascading locks of raven hair as she leaned over him and sang a song of ancient blessings. It was to these dreams that he first awoke with tears in his eyes.

As Jon grew older his dreams of women changed, changed from dreaming of mother to dreaming of lovers. But those dreams – dreams of fire kissed hair and soft velvet skin – those dreams soon became dreams of loss and sorrow, deep and profound the likes of which he thought he’d never know, and did not have the words to name.

In time he realized that the sorrow was not his own, or at list it had not begun so. Over time, over a thousands renditions, somewhere along the line it had crept into his own soul. Why he dreamed of making love to one so filled with loss and pain Jon of course did not know, but he continued to do so.

When he realized just who it was who met him ever night in his dreams, with welcoming arms and soul filled with misery, Jon thought he might die from the aching in his heart.

He’d thought her to be perfect, the Great Goddess made flesh and blood. He’d thought her blessed by the gods, not cursed. And for a time he held onto the desperate hope that it was only a wild nightmare, the creation of his own twisted mind. Then one fateful day he’d seen it, seen it as she thought herself alone and knelt before the Old Gods only to weep instead of prey, to weep and curse and rant against gods who’d stolen something unspeakably precious from hear. He’d seen that sorrow and pain in her eyes, and known that as is dreams of ancient kings, his dreams of a broken lady were more than the fanciful imaginings of a twisted mind.

So when Jon awoke from a newly changed dream he was both relieved, and profoundly troubled by what he had seen.

_Once more he was within the Godswood, all about him pale weirdwoods grew tall and proud – taller than they ever reached in the waking world. Jon though had little care for these great monoliths, and even little care for what it might mean to have the eyes of the gods looking upon him from such mighty heights._

_No, he had attention for only one thing. Or rather one person._

_She knelt before the heart-tree naked from head to toe. But aren't we all naked before the gods? That thought made him smile, she didn’t believe in his gods so now she’d bared herself before them – was it to show him that she respected the old ways? A peace offering to put an end to the battles they’d waged across the landscape of these very woods for so many years?_

_He did not know, did not care. For here, in this place she was his and he was hers. Nothing stood between them and nothing held him back._

_Jon went to her then, as he never would in life. Without a word he fell to his knees behind her and wrapped his arms, suddenly unbound with shirt or tunic, around her. Leaning down he buried his face in the nape of her neck, allowed his lips to taste her skin._

“ _Time draws short you know.” She said, and as she turned to speak to him, twisting at the waist and bringing soft hands up to cup either side of his face he could see the lines of tears that fell ever down from her azure eyes for as long as he could remember had dried. In their place she wept tears of blood. Jon’s heart stopped beating altogether when he realized her lips had turned blue in the last cold_ _kiss_ _of death._

_Panic sized him then as her skin went cold beneath his touch, her body suddenly listless and lifeless in his arms._

“ _No! No no no no no…” he said it again and again, roared it out, screamed it until his throat bled and there was no more voice within him to scream._

“ _Cry not my love.” Her voice came to him from death, devoid of all that which in life had stirred him and stoked the fire in his belly, “Cry not for now you may have me. As you are this is the only way.”_

_Somehow he found more voice to speak and said it again, though this time it was not the empty chanting of disbelief and horror that it had been before. No, this time it was the hard and unyielding deceleration of a man who has seen what awaits him in the afterlife and will move all the realms of men to make his end lead him anywhere else – even if it is hell where he will go instead: “No.”_

“ _This I will not have. This I do not want.” He turned away from her then, though it was not really her, and turned instead to the trees, to the Gods watchful eyes. “You here me?” He bellowed up and out for them all to hear, “This I do not want – give me any or all the sorrows life and death can give but do not_ bless _me with this!”_

“ _But this is the only ending the path you walk will lead.” She said, still in that dreadful empty mockery of a voice that should hold so much more, “This is where Jon Snow ends.”_

“ _Then I will change!” He said, latching onto any hope he had with the desperation of a drowning man, “What must I do to change this? Let me be a different man, let me walk a different path.”_

_A smile played across the lips of his corps love then._

“ _Very well my love. Then a different path you will walk. Though I warn you now it will take much from you, you will not recognize yourself by it’s end.” She warned._

_A scowl crossed his face at that, what would he have to do to become unrecognizable to his own past? Even so, there was only one answer he needed, “Could you love that man? The one I will become?”_

_Again, those terrible lips blue as a winter rose twisted into a smile, and like her voice it was a terrible empty show of what in life was a beautiful thing._

“ _Yes my love, I will love you still.”_

_When their lips met Jon’s vision swam out of focus into a storm of chaos and confusion. When he could once again see he found himself standing high atop a strange mountain and heard her voice, though now it lived again and sent a thrill of fiery joy though him upon hearing it: “Look now, and see the path you have chosen, see what you will now face.”_

_The clouds all about the peak began to shift and change, color blooming everywhere seeping together and springing apart. Eventually the strange colors and shapes coalesced into scenes and images playing out before his eyes._

_Jon saw himself standing on a causeway, before him an army marching beneath lion banners spread out as far as the eye could see. At his back flew the grey wolf of House Stark as well as a hundred other banners – some he knew, some were new to him._

_Then the image was gone, replaced by another of a huge galley with purple sails racing before a mighty storm. As he watched great tentical arms reached out from the sea snatching at it’s hull, grabbing it fast and slowing it’s flight…_

_Suddenly he was standing with The Wall to his back, a great host of Wildlings looking straight at him with eyes filled with hope and horror, they reached out for him a thousand voices begging to be saved…_

_He stood before a crossroads watching the small form of a familiar girl sprinting towards him, her face and chest gleaming with crimson blood as a pack of baying hounds chased after her…_

_A heart-tree rose high above him, higher still from where he knelt before it. Beside him a woman he could not see knelt as well, the soft cadence of a voice he knew not at all said “And do you take this man…”_

_He sat in a great stone hall. All about the place banners of a hundred houses hung some slashed or scorched or stained brown with dried blood. Among them he saw the lion and stag, a three headed dragon, the grasping krakon, the creeping rose, and a dozen others aside. The floor was filled with long tables, each filled with men and women drinking and singing as if the dawn would never come. Children romped about the place, their cries of joy harmonizing with the soft tune sung by a red haired girl._

_And above it all he sat in a high seat. His hair had turned grey with the years but his shoulders were still broad, and there was strength enough to grasp the great sword which sat at his side. And behind him, hanging above all other banners was a sigil he’d never seen before –_ _the skull of a great horned beast painted in dripping crimson on a jet black field._

_In his ear Jon heard the whisper “All this and more might be yours. To have this life of love and joy – you must do naught but live it…”_

When he awoke from that dream for the first time Jon had been filled with a strange and foreign sense of elation and dread. He’d long ago accepted his dreams might mean _something_ but if so, what cold such a dream tell of? Was it his future? Or was it some cruel lie, another joke of the gods?

By the time he’d awoken from that dream for the ninth time he’d decided that it didn’t matter. He just wanted it to stop. And something told him that so long as he slept above the ancient tombs of the Barrowlands the dream would still haunt him.

Thus it was with no little glee that Jon crossed the White Knife and counted himself finished with the resting place of long dead witch kings. That night, with White Harbor only a day’s ride south, he went to sleep with his heart resting easy for the first time in days.

The next morning he awoke with tears in his eyes and a smile upon his face. Yes, his dreams of _her_ brought him both joy and sorrow… and no small amount of confusion, but at least they did not whisper to him, or show tantalizing visions of some strange uncertain future. No he was happy to once more dream simply of a lady he could not have. That at least was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. Lots of dreaming and not really any action I know. I like writing it though and hope y'all don't mind if I use the format every now and then as it gives me a chance to get a little magic going without having folks throwing great balls of fire, and more importantly lets me dig into Jon's head with all the finesse of a axe murderer. 
> 
> There is roughly a moth of travel (in world) ahead of Jon and I don't know how much of it I'll end up writing. The interesting stuff is going to happen once Jon gets where he's going and trying to make travel interesting can make things feel a little too... rushed. So there will be at least one more chapter of narration and exposition as Jon works through some of what's happened to him in the past seven chapters while he travels Southward.


	10. >| Songs of Old Teach Lessons New |<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon ponders his new reality and the things he's done as he sets sail across the Narrow Sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note before you read. There's mention of some names/content form an IP other than ASOIAF/GOT in this chapter. I am borrowing some stuff from the religion of the Nords in the game Skyrim to flush out the faith of the Old Gods a bit as rituals and practices in regards to worshiping them will be a big part of this story later on. If you haven't played Skyrim or don't want to read a crossover don't worry, this is just me cheating and not coming up with something original. It's not a crossover and you don't need to have played the game to track what's going on; I'm really just borrowing some names/rhetoric.

“Listen and hear me oh sailors young and old, hear me from far and long ago…”

The wistful, almost keening voice of the Inn’s resident bard snatched at Jon’s ears as he departed from the Trout’s Tail for the final time. He’d been in White Harbor for three days, looking for a ship that would carry him south but in his haste, and inexperience, he’d insisted upon a ship that was sailing _directly_ for Dorne. Unfortunately the dock hand who’d told him of just such a ship had failed to mention that made it’s voyage once every three months – and it was not due for another moon.

He’d gone looking for that dock worker, he had wanted to exact his revenge, to take the cost of his wasted time out of the man’s flesh. Halfway to the dock front Ghost had stopped him, grabbing hold of his tunic and refusing to release him.

At first Jon had been irate with the beast, driven almost mad with anger at his interference. It was only when he raised his hand, fingers curled into a fist, intent on striking his ever faithful companion, that he realized what he was doing.

Never, not even when all the world seemed to conspire against him had Jon allowed the anger he felt to so control him. So why did it then?

Thus began Jon’s near constant state of self questioning that slowed, but eventually enabled his search for a ship. The _Maiden’s Might_ was a trade galley recently arrived from across the Narrow Sea. Though her captain and crew were all Westerosi, the owner was a Braavosi man who happened to have sailed with his cargo-- seemingly a rare occurrence.

From White Harbor the Maiden’s Might was scheduled to follow the trade winds, first back to Braavos, then back across the Narrow Sea, and down the western coast of Westeros before finally making port in Dorne. And as luck would have it the merchant, a man named Tyrall, was so afraid for his safety and the safety of his cargo that he wanted to hire another dozen men-at-arms to safeguard his interests throughout the voyage.

After asking after this ship’s captain and reputation Jon learned the reason for the relatively high pay and availability of the work. Most such contracts were for a single leg of a ships voyage, but Tyrall wanted the guards to stay aboard for the entire journey and very few men were disposed to spend so long and sail so far from their normal ports of call. Jon was no such man.

So with little concern for what his future would bring, aside from many more weeks on the open sea, Jon had put his name down in the captain’s book and agreed to be aboard the Maiden’s Might two days hence at the first light of dawn.

With a full day and night between then and when Jon found himself leaving his Inn for what he knew to be the final time Jon had much to do, and was eager to begin.

Once more he was lucky. Lucky that White Harbor was as large a city as it was, making his search for an armorer willing to trade easier than it would have been almost anywhere else in the North. After finding a reputable feeling establishment he went about acquiring a spear, shield, and bow.

He payed with coin gained from his time aboard the Dancing Bear and in trade using the weapons he’d taken from those Ironborn he killed in battle. In the end the armorer, a Valeman felt that he’d come out the better in their deal to such an extreme that he insisted upon fashioning Jon with a steel helm.

It was no new or custom made piece, but the helm was nonetheless quality steel – a barbute forged and riveted together and in good condition if one ignored the scratches and dings which had clearly been hammered out of it.

Jon was grateful for this kindness. Armor was a luxury he’d not hoped to posses, and he had no doubt in the protection such a helm provided being able to save his life in the fights he was sure to come.

The spear and shield were a necessity addition to his slowly expanding personal armory. To call himself a man-at-arms he needed more than a single sword; and he remembered well the service even the crudest of spears had rendered during his fight with the wildlings. Used together with a shield Jon knew that such a weapon would render him far more able to ensure the success of his new venture – and his own survival. The bow was more a luxury than necessity – but again, even a crude bow had served him well already and while the longbow he now carried was ash and not yew, it would serve the same vital purpos _e of keeping him alive._ He only hoped he’d be able to expand his quiver beyond the seven goose-feather shafts he’d been able to afford…

After spending that night aboard the Maiden’s Might Jon found himself once more saying his farewells. Though this time it was not to a life of servitude at the wall, or to the warm embrace of Bear Island, but rather to the entire North, and all the world he’d ever known.

* * *

Rather than acting as a distraction for Jon, allowing his mind some rest, his service aboard the Maiden’s Might proved to allow even more time for him to brood.

Robb had once told him that he was too dour, and that it was due to his apparently sour disposition that nobody like him or wished to be in his company. Jon had refrained from explaining to his brother the true reason for the peoples seeming distaste for him – that being their worry that Jon might one day seek to supplant his younger brother’s heirship.

One one score though Robb _had_ been correct. Jon was rather fond of brooding. So each day, after patrolling the cargo decks to ensure no one walked away with a pouch of the precious spice cargo, he would retire to the small barracks afforded to the guardsmen and lay back in his hammock and turn his thoughts to the past.

During those days Jon thought long and hard on what he had done, on what choices he’s made, and what those acts and decisions said about him as a person, as a man.

It started when he decided he could not join the Night’s Watch and instead traveled west to the very edge of the wall. Why hadn't he gone back to Castle Black? Once he’d escaped the initial Wildling attack he could very well have followed the lead of the Rangers and turned south towards the relative warmth and safety of the castle.

From Castle Black he would have been able to travel the Kingsroad south, back to Winterfell. Back to his family, to Robb who he knew was ruling alone in his father’s stead.

Granted things would have been awkward with Lady Stark. And no it wouldn’t have been wise to stay in Winterfell. But he could have at least rested, collected arms and armor, a horse, provisions, and traveled onward with the best possible start.

Instead he had ridden east, ridden even deeper into the lands beyond The Wall until there was no longer anywhere to ride. Only then had he turned south and entered into Westwatch.

What had driven him onward, what had turned his path away from the paths and places he knew?

Jon didn’t really like the answer when it came to him, it spoke of something within his soul that he’d never expected, or hoped to find there. He’d chosen the path of greater danger for the simple fact that it held the most risk, that surviving it would prove once and for all that he was a man, that he Jon Snow was more than the Bastard of Winterfell.

Was that really all it was? The reason for all he’d done was simply to prove to others, to the gods, to himself that he was more than a name?

But no. That couldn’t be it. For he’d once again made a choice when, while at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, he discovered the cannibalistic nature of the Wildling raiders camped out there.

Nothing had forced him to stay, to fortify, and to fight them. He’d _chosen_ to. He’d heeded the rage in his chest and allowed the wolfs-blood running through his veins to drive him into conflict with men who’d done him no harm – it was the harm against the people of the North that he’d judged them for.

And he had judged them, judged them guilty and cut them down, each with less mercy than the last. Ser Rodrik had trained him to kill, and ever since setting out he’d used that training well, not once shying from it, not once choosing the cowardly or safe path.

Once again when he had the choice he took passage on a ship not as a hand or laborer, but as a guardsmen, a man expected to shed the blood of men. Oh and how he’d shed blood. A half dozen Ironborn fell to his sword, then a dozen more when he executed them. That was another thing. When the time came he again had acted not as a wandering bastard, but as a son of House Stark. The blood flowing through his veins, ancient as The Wall itself, had demanded he act and had settled the weight of responsibility square on his shoulders – it was a weight he’d accepted and welcomed without a moment's pause.

These were not the deeds of the lowly bastard he’d so long thought himself to be, not the choices made by a man who was nothing more than a stain upon his Noble father’s honor… So what was he if not that?

He was no true Noble, but nor was he lowborn, or low in any other way; though after his behavior regarding the heir to Bear Island he could not claim to truly be a man of honor either.

So what was he when left with neither shame nor honor?

Of course, as it seemed it must always be, it was _her_ voice which brought him the answer:

Duty. Duty to family. Duty to the Gods. And Duty to the North.

It was after all The North and its people who’d driven him to kill, driven him to act every time with unairing certainty.

Unbidden, the lyrics of an old song sprang to mind. It was one of the ancient songs Old Nan used to sing to him in the dark nights when thunder and wind sent him scampering from his bed.

“ _And we stand tall,  
Sons of the snow.  
We will not fall,  
Under these blows.  
For our hearts they are hardy,  
Our spirits are strong.  
And our voices are lifted into,  
This Sovngarde song…”_

Translated into the common tongue it lost something, but in the Old Tongue it spoke to something deep within Jon. The song itself, Old Nan had told him, was a battle hymn sung by Northern Warriors for the first time after they were pushed into the Far North by the Andal invasion. And it was with this song on their lips, a song of anger and rage, that they struck back at the invaders, in turn forcing them back south of the Neck and forever forging a Kingdom of First Men in the North.

The lyrics themselves were hard for Jon to understand – despite his fluency in the Old Tongue – mostly because they spoke of some of the most ancient beliefs of the First Men brought from whatever land they hailed from in the time before the Dawn Age. _Sovngarde_ was an afterlife, he knew that, but no more. Nonetheless the song spoke to him then.

 _Sons of the snow._ That was who he’d killed for. Not really because he was a Lord’s son, nor because his brother would one day rule those he sought justice for. He’d done all he’d done because those who the Wildlings and Ironborn had injured, killed, and stolen from were the same as him. They were kin in a way he yet had the words to put form to.

And if not he, then who would speak for them? His father? Robb? The other Northern Lords?

Nay, all of them were too busy. Busy heeding the Southern Rule, preparing for winter, and promoting their own interests. But he was a Snow as much as a Stark and all the people of the North were his kin. And he’d treated them as such; guarding them with steel and blood.

* * *

Such were the thoughts which weighed heavily upon Jon’s mind all through the first leg of his voyage across the Narrow Sea.

By the time they reached Braavos he’d come to few answers, but some small peace had cut it’s way through the confusion and uncertainty to take firm root in his heart. Whatever he had done, however many lives he’d taken – at least he’d done so for those he thought to be kin. And how could he feel shame for anything done in the name of protecting kin? Could the gods look upon such acts with anything other than approval, or at least acceptance?

Perhaps the Old Gods were not the best to ask for such answers though. There was a time no so long gone that they demanded sacrifices of men’s entrails to be spilled before them, for blood to water the earth of all godswoods… still, they were the only gods he knew, the only gods he could love…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter filled with a whole lot of THINKING! 
> 
> Things will get fun again soon I swear (please don't revolt yet).


	11. Update!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick update on the status of this story.

Alright you wonderful readers so here's the state of it.

When I started this story it was mean't to be more of a drawn out one shot. Thirty-thousand words meant to get Jon from where he begins to a nice romantic resolution. I started it in a fit of passion, desperate to produce some content during this isolation. Now as it drags on, with no end in sight, I find my passion and interest moving towards less impassioned projects. As such I'm going to be taking a few steps back from this project. 

I'll keep working on it when the spark hits and will update whenever I finish a chapter. Thanks!


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